Skip to main content

Full text of "Vocal culture and elocution : with numerous exercises in reading and speaking"

See other formats



The School Stage. 

A new collection of Juvenile Acting Pla\ .. lly W. II. 
Venable. For Little Children. Plain aiul full direc- 
tions relating to Costume, Properties, and Slo'^e Busi- 
ness. Illustrated. 

The Amateur Actor, 

Over twenty choice Acting Plays, selected from stand- 
ard English authors. By W. H. Venable. For Young 
People. Full and lucid descriptions and explanations. 

Dramas and Dramatic Scenes. 

Edited by W. H. Venable. Twenty Plays, selected 
from the writings of standard authors. Adapted to 
.school and home exhibitions, and to the use of advanced 
classes in reading. Illustrations by Faknv. i2mo, 
cloth, 236 pp. 

Elocution and Vocal Culture. 

With numerous Exercises in Reading and Speaking. 
By Robert Kidd, A. M. i2mo, cloth, 480 pp. 

McGuffe/s New Juvenile Eclectic Speaker. 

Improved edition. 200 easy and animakd Exercises 
for Reading or Speaking. 228 pp. 

McGuffe/s New Eclectic Speaker. 

300 master-pieces from the very best sources of Ameri- 
can and English Literature. i2mo, cloth, 504 pp. 




From the Preface to Tlialheimers History of England. 

The increasing study of History in our schools is doubtless a 
hopeful sign for the future of the Republic. A free government 
depends for its honor, if not for its very life, upon a well balanced 
national character ; and this caii hardly cxibt without some general 
knowledge of the recorded experience of mankind. And, surely, 
the history of which we can least aflbrd to be ignorant is that of 
our mother country. 

That branch of the great German race which was planted 
fourteen centuries ago on British soil, grew, under unexceptionally 
favoring influences, to be the admiration of the world. The his- 
tory of the long series of popular conquests, nobly won and 
firmly held, — from Magna Charta to that Bill of Rights which 
was the prelude to our own Declaration of Independence — con- 
tains a fund of political wisdom u lili li no nation, and ours least 
of all, can afford to neglect. . We do well to remem- 

ber that English History is, in :i vci v special sense, our own ; 
and it is difficult to imagine how the spirit of American institu- 
tions can be understood without some knowledge of the circum- 
stances in Great Britain which led to the formation, and after- 
ward to the independence, of our earliest States. 

Though a large and honorable mass of our citizens are of other 
than English descent, yet it is English freedom — the slow and 
sturdy growth of many centuries — that they or their fathers have 
sought to enjoy under the shelter of the great Republic; — this 
new slip, severed a hundred years ago from the parent tree, only 
that it might extend new roots and branches in a broader field 
and under still freer heavens. 

Would that the study of the glorious centuries of English 
History might convince some young mind that the sei-vice of the 
fatherland is not the degrading affair of selfish interest and greed 
which some would make it, but the grandest of all opportunities 
to serve God, win a noble name, and benefit our race! 

* History of England. By M. E. Thalhf.imer, author of Ancient and 
Medieval and Modem History. lamo., cloth, 288 pp. Illustrated 












C INC INN A Tl. xr. ;r 1 V ) /o a* 

• ' * ^ « . ,« 


^ -p 


Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 


in the Clerk's OflBce of the District Court of the United jJ bates foi 
the Southern District of Ohio. 

Stcreotyred Ht the Franklin Type Foundry. 


The Elementary Treatise embraced in this volume em- 
bodies the views of the compiler on elocutionary instruc- 
tion. These views are the result of careful study and 
observation, and long experience as a practical teacher of 
he subjects discussed. 

The primary object in the preparation of this work has 
been to place in convenient form for use, those principles, 
rules, illustrations, and exercises, which, for purposes of 
instruction, have been found best calculated to make good 
readers, and easy, graceful, and correct speakers. 

It is hoped that this system of instruction, which has 
been long and successfully pursued by the compiler, may, 
in the hands of others, prove a valuable aid in the cultiva- 
tion of the voice and the art of reading and speaking. 

The leading feature of this treatise, and that claimed as 
distinguishing it from other similar works, is the import- 
ance given to the subject of vocal culture, without a 
proper attention to which success in elocution and oratory 
is unattainable. The rules and exercises in this department 
will be found full and complete. 

The selections for reading and declamation have been 
made with reference to their fitness to exemplify the princi- 
ples discussed in the elementary portion of the work, or to 
illustrate the various styles of reading, declamation, and 





Elocution 11 

Breathing 12 

Elementary Sounds 12 

Definition of Terms 15 

Pure Tone 17 

Position of the Organs 18 

Articulation 19 

Modulation 25 

Emphasis 85 

Cadence 87 

Commencing Series 38 

The Parenthesis 40 

Rhetorical Pause 41 


Antithesis 46 

Climax 46 

Amplification 49 

Transition 50 

Emphatic Repetition ... 52 

Interrogation 53 

Pitch 65 

Force 59 

Quantity, — MoTcment 62 

Exclamation 65 

Personation, — Style 66 

Gesture 67 

Language of the Passions 71 



1. A Providential Guest ... 93 

2. The Heart's Charity 94 

8. Loss of Central America. 96 

4. The Pass of Death 98 

5. Blacksmith of Ragenbach 99 

6. The Life Boat 101 

7. The Miser 102 

8. Ocean Life 104 

10. Hassan, the Camel Driver 106 

11 . Forty Years Ago 109 

12. The Fatal Falsehood 110 

13. The Cynic 113 

14. The Field of Waterloo. . .114 
16. Varieties in Prose 116 

16. Poetical Selections 118 

17. Death of Morris 120 

18. Poor Little Jim 122 

19. The Sunset of Battle 123 

20. Poetical Selections 125 



21. Anecdotes 126 

22. Poetical Selections 128 

23. False Witness Detected.. 130 

24. Poetical Selections 133 

25. Anecdotes 135 

26. Hate of the Bowl 137 

27. Steam Engine 138 

28. Nature's Gentleman 141 

29. The Barometer 142 

30. Leap for Life 144 

31. The Demagogue 145 

32. Poetical Selections 147 

33. Whaleship and Cannibals 148 

34. After a Tempest 150 

35. Anecdotes 151 

36. Marco Bozzaris 153 

37. Anecdotes 155 

38. Absalom 157 

39. The Irish Peasantry 158 





40. Industry and Eloquence.. 161 

41. Awake to Effort 1G2 

42. Cheerfulness 164 

48 Varieties in Prose 166 

44 Poetical Selections 167 

46. Varieties in Prose 169 

46. Personality of a Laugh. .171 

47. Do n't Run in Debt 173 

48. No Excellence without La- 

bor 174 

49. Where there 's a Will 

there 's a Way 176 

60. Varieties in Prose 176 

6?. Good Temper 178 

62. Oppooite Examples 179 

5S. Adircss to the Indolent. .181 

M. Variciies in Prose 182 

60 Paalm of Life 184 

6"' Varieties in Prose 185 


67. What '11 They Think 186 

68. Paddle Your Own Canoe. 187 

69. Varieties in Prose 189 

60. Poetical Selections 190 

61. Varieties in Prose 192 

62. Literary Pursuits 193 

63. Opportunity for Effort... 194 

64. Suppose 195 

66. The Spider and the Fly . .196 

66. Parallel between Pope and 

Dryden 197 

67. Condition of Man Vindi- 

cated 198 

68. Advice to Preachers 200 

69. Poetry of Science 201 

70. Early rising conducive to 

Health 202 

71. Oratory 208 

72. Flowers 205 


73. Inspiration of the Bible. .207 

74. Poetical Selections 208 

76. Varieties in Prose 209 

76. Suspense 211 

77. Telescope and Microscope 212 

78. The Unseen Battlefield.. .216 

79. Varieties in Prose 216 

80. God, the Source of Conso- 

lation 218 

81. "We'll All Meet Again in 

the Morning." 218 


82. Tell me, ye Winged Winds 220 

83. Survey of the Heavens. . .221 

84. Defense of Pulpit Elo- 

quence 222 

85. Poetical Selections 225 

86. Infidelity Tested 227 

87. Religion the only Basis of 

Society 228 

88. The Celestial Army 229 

89. The Promises of Religion 

to the Young 231 


Spirit of the American 

Revolution 283 

On Reform in Parliament 286 

Reply of Mr. Pitt. 236 

American Laborers 288 

Last Speech of Emmet. . .239 
Against American War. .241 

96. Arbitrary Power not 

given to Man 242 

97. Barbarity of Nationa? 

Hatreds 24« 

98. Varieties in Prose 246 

99. Speech of Patrick Il-nry 247 
100. Varieties in Prose 250 




101. Nobility of Labor 251 

102. Right to Tax America. .253 

103. Fate of the American In- 

dians 254 

104 Model for the Formation 

of Character 256 

106. Supposed Speech of John 

Adams 257 

106. Ambition of a Statesman 259 

107. Speech in Conyention of 

Virginia 260 

108. Ignorance in our Coun- 

try a Crime ...262 

109. Rebellion and Revolu- 

tion 263 

110. Political Corruption 264 

111. Extension of the Repub- 

lic 266 

112. Speech of James Otis. . .267 

113. The Age of Reason 268 

114. Reply to Mr. Corry 269 

116. On Sudden Political Con- 
versions 270 


116. Invective against War- 

ren Hastings 272 

117. Popular Elections 274 

118. Oration against Verres.275 

119. Oration against Catiline 276 

120. Degeneracy of Athens.. 277 

121. On Reduction of Revenue 278 

122. Patriotic Sclf-Sacrifice. .280 

123. South Carolina and Mat»- 

sachusetts 281 

124. Passing of the Rubicon.. 283 

125. Napoleon Bonaparte 284 

126. The Stability of our Gov- 

ernment 286 

127. Against Curtailing th3 

Right of SuflFrage 287 

128. To the American Troops 

before the Battle of 
Long Island 23.' 

129. Liberty and Union 2?*: 

130. Death of J. Q. Adams. .29f 

131. Moral effects of Intem- 

perance 292 


132. Bernardo Del Carpio.... 293 

133. Philip Van Artevelde to 

the Men of Ghent.... 295 

1 34. Varieties in Verse 296 

135. Marmion Taking Leave 

of Douglas 297 

136. Ode on the Passions. . . .299 

137. Antony's Oration over 

Caesar 301 

138. Varieties in Verse 304 

139. Hamlet's Soliloquy 305 

140. The Maniac 30G 

141. Rolla's Address to the 

Peruvians 307 

142. Soliloouy of the King of 

Denmark 308 

143. V arieties in Verse 309 

144. Soliloquy of a Drunkard's 

Wife 311 

145. Catiline's Defiance 312 

146. Marullus to the Roman 

Populace 314 

147. The Miser Punished 314 

148. On the Death of Caesar. 316 

149. The Baron's Last Ban- 

quet 317 

150. Song of the Greeks 819 

151. Warren's Address at 

Bunker Hill Battle.. 320 

152. Tell on his Native Hills 321 

153. Bruce's Address ..822 

154. Macbeth to the Dagger. .322 

155. Spartacus to the Gladia- 

tors at Capua 323 




156. Woolsey's Fall 325 

167. The Rum Maniac 326 

158. Battle Hymn 328 

159. Kocks of my Country.. .328 
100. Brutus, on the Death of 

Lucretia 829 

161. Varieties in Verse 330 

162. Othello's Apology 332 

163. Hotspur's Description of 

a Fop 334 

16-J. The Gambler's Wife 335 

165. Cassius against Caesar. .336 
1 Ilienzi's Address to the 

Romans 338 

167. The Sailor Boy's Dream. 339 

168. Henry V. at Harfleur...341 

169. Seven ages of Man 841 

1 70. Parrhasius 342 

171. The Seminole's Defiance. 344 


172. Love of Country 345 

173. Varieties in Verse 846 

1 74. From Lalla Rookh 349 

176. Moloch and Satan 350 

176. The Fireman 351 

177. The Dying Brigand. .. 853 

178. Soliloquy from Manfred. 854 

179. Ginevra 855 

180. Excelsior S57 

181. Soliloquy of Richard III . 868 

182. Moonlight and Music... 359 

183. The Isles of Greece 360 

184. Varieties in Verse 361 

185. Lochiel's Warning 863 

186. Song of the War 866 

187. Charge of the Light Bri- 

gade 866 

188. Lord Ullin's Daughter. 867 


1 Widow Bcdott to Elder 

Sniffles 369 

190. The Lavin'— A Poe-m...371 

191. Dr. Bashaw's Oration.. .374 
I'tJ. The Apple Dumplings and 

George the Third 374 

193. The Directing Post 376 

194. Parody,— The Old Oaken 

Bucket 876 

195. Lyceum Speech of Mr. 

Orator Climax 877 

196. The Whiskers 878 

197. Eloquence in a Western 

Court 881 

198. Poetry Now-a-days 882 

199. Daniel versus Dishcloth . . 388 

200. Housekeeper's Soliloquy 886 

201. The Rejected 887 

202. The Confession 388 

203. Tlie Bachelor's Soliloquy 889 

204. Inexperienced Speaker. .3be 

205. The Frenchman and the 

Rats 390 

206. Borrowed Nails — Heads 

and Points 891 

207. Fourth of July Oration. 892 

208. Mr. John Smith's Will. .393 

209. Examination of a Wit- 

ness 896 

210. Mrs. Caudle's Lecture.. .897 

211. Charge to the Jury 398 

212. Truth in Parenthesis.. . .399 

218. The Modern Belle 400 

214. Orator Puff 401 

216. Nobody's Song 402 

216. Coquette Punished 408 

217. The Lost Pantaloons 40b 

218. Stump Spooch . . .406 

219. Parody on Hamlet's Solil- 

oquy. 407 



2l'0. Charge of a Dutch Mag- 
istrate 408 

221. The Nantucket Skipper. 409 

222. The Frog 410 

223. Parody on the Burial of 

Sir John Moore 410 

224. The Hypochondriac 411 

225. Buzfux versus Pickwick. 413 

226. Socrates Snooks 41G 

227. Varieties in Verse 417 

228. Fuss at Fires 419 

229. Praying for Rain 420 

230. The Dapple Mare 422 

231. First Appearance in type 424 

232. Love and Physic 425 

233. Varieties in Ver«e 427 

234. The Old Hat 429 

235. The Three Black Crows. 431 

236. Char-co-o-al 1 432 



The Old Arm Chair. . . 




Political Integrity 




Who shall Judge a Man ? 457 



Highland Mary 




The Rook and the Lark 




The Old Man Dreams . 




The Sniveler 



The Last Footfall 



Varieties in Verse 




The Isle of Long Ago. . 




Llewellyn and his Dog. 




The Chambered Nautilus 467 


237. All Tipsy but Me 4SS 

238. Effects of Influenza 484 

239. Bobadil's Military Tac- 

tics 435 

240. Speech Obituary 435 

211. Thanksgiving Dinner.. 437 
242. The Mysterious Walker 441 

243 Pleading Extraordinary 442 

244 The Farmer and the 

Counselor 444 

245. The Modest W:i 446 

246. The March of Intellect. 446 

247. A Tea Party 447 

248. There once was a Toper 449 

249. Yes or No 450 

250. Queries 451 

251. Deacon Stokes 462 

252. The Drunkard's Resolu- 

tion 454 

The Power of Habit 468 

E Pluribus Unum 470 

The Union 471 

Esto Perpetua 473 

Lay of the Madman 474 

Love, Murder, and Mat- 
rimony — Almost ,476 

The Miser and Plutiis. .477 

Recollections 478 

Little by Little 47'cJ 

F m With You Once 
Again 480 

• • • V 


Elocution is the art of reading and speaking correctly. 
Ita rules relate chiefly to the management of the voice in 
the expression of thought and emotion. , 

The vocal qualifications, necessary to enable the teader 
)r speaker to bring out the sense and sentiment of dis- 
jourse in a pleasing and impressive manner, are: — 

First, A clear, futl, resonant voice. 

Second, A perfectly distinct, and correct articulation. 

Third, Such a control of the voice, as to be able to vary 
its modulations at pleasure. 

Ignorance of the right way of using the lungs and the 
larynx, in speaking, reading, and singing, has caused more 
cases of bronchitis and pulnionary consumption among 
students, vocalists, clergymen and other public speakers, 
than all other causes combined. 

The right use of the breathing apparatus, in connection 
with the exercise of the voice, ought, therefore, to be the 
first subject to which the attention of the student of FAo* 
cution is called. Before the pupil is permitted to read a 
sentence, he must be taught, not by precept, but by exam- 
ple, how to manage the breath while exercising the voice. 

The child thus trained will speak, read or sing, in a 
clear, full, natural tone, and will grow up, in a great mcas* 
are, free from the worst faults and defects in Elocution. 


• • • 

^'.i: * .: : f ;\ ''blooution. 


Stand or sit erect; keep the head up and the chest ex- 
panded; throw the shoulders well back; place the handa 
upon the hips, with the fingers pressing upon the abdomen, 
and the thumbs extending backward; inhale the breath 
ilowly, until the lungs are fully inflated, retaining the 
breath for a few moments, then breathing it out as slowly 
as it was taken in. 

Let the chest rise and fall freely at every inspiration, 
and take care not to make the slightest aspirate sound, in 
taking in or giving out the breath. 

Continue to txike in and throw out the breath with in- 
creasing rapidity, until you can instantly inflate, and, as 
suddenly, empty the lungs. Repeat this exercise several 
times a day, and continue it as long as it i< unattended 
with dizziness or other unpleasant feelings. 


The Elementary Sounds of the English Language are 
classified under three great divisions: First, the Vocals; 
Second, the Suhvocah; Third, the Aspirates. 


Vocals consist of pure tone, and are subdivided into 
monothongs, which have the same sound from the com- 
mencement to the close; into the dipthongs, which begin 
with one sound and end with another; and into the short 
Tocals, which differ from the monothongs only in the man 
ner in which they are uttered. 

The subvocals possess vocality, but in an inferior degree 
and, in all of them, the vocalized breath is more or lesa 


The 8ubvocaIs are divided into the correlatives, each of 
which terminates in an aspirate sound ; into the nasals, in 
which the vocalized breath is passed through the nasal pas- 
sage; into the liquids, so called from their special depend- 
ence upon the tongue; and into the coalescents, from their 
readily uniting with the vocal sounds. 

The aspirate sounds have no vocal tone, and, conse- 
uuently, differ most from the vocals. They arc divided into 
'.ho explodents and the continuants. 



1. e, as heard in me, eve, thee, free, &c. 

2. ;i. " ale, may, thcj, pay. 
o. a, as heard before r, in care, there, air, pear. 




in arm, bar, hard, ma. 




law, awe, jaw, saw. 




no, woe, own, home. 




ooze, fool, moon, room. 



:is in 

it, will, live, give, pit. 



let, debt, end, deck, pet. 



err, verse, serve, sir, fir. 



add, mat, slab, past, bad. 



on, rob, log, dog, cot. 



ii|>, out. -iin, but, sup. 



foot, soot, booV ' 





as in 

die, sky, try, fie, lie. 




coil, joy, boy, oil. 




now, vow, owl, proud, 




few, new, due, view. 


I is composed of the eleventh and first sounds; Oi, of 
the twelfth and first; Ow, of the twelfth and sevcntli; ynd 
U, of the eighth and seventh sounds. 


19. D, as in babe, web ; b stops with the light sound of p. 
dead, had, bed; " 
gag, dog, wag ; " 
wedge, badge, judge; 
valve, wave, live; 
thee, thou, breathe; 
zeal, ooze, size ; 
pleasure, azure, measure; 


nun, one, on, moon, 
maim, home, me, come, 
bring, thing, singing, sting. 


30. 1, as in hill, shall, well, all. 

31. r, (the hard or trill sound) as in rise, drum, roar. 

32. r (the soft sound) at the end of the word, as in roat 

20. d, 


21. g, 


22. j, 


23. V, 


24. th, 


25. z, 


26. zh, 


27. n 

as in 

28. m, 


29. ng, 

























33. W, as in we, way, was, wit. 

34. J, " ye, you, yet, yes. 



as in 









as in 





















pipe, cap, rope, step, pop. 
it, met, spot, that, rot. 
back, thick, kick, deck, neck. 


church, which, wretch, 
life, stiff, laugh, fife, 
think, three, breath, thing, 
see, pass, hiss, this, 
shame, wish, crash, dash, 
horse, home, he, hence, 
whence, where, what, which. 

As the words Pitchy Force^ Stress^ Quantity, Qualify^ 
Movement, and other terms will frequently occur in the 
exercises upon the elementary sounds, it is proper at this 
point to define them. 

PiTcn signifies the place in the musical scale on which 
the clement, syllable, or word is sounded; or it may refer 
to the pervading pitch of the voice in reading or speaking. 
The following distinctions may be made in pitch: very 
low, low, middle, or conversational, high, and very high. 

Force relates to the loudness of the sound, the degrees 
of which may bo described as suppressed, subdued, mod- 
erate, energetic, and vehement. 

Stress relates to the diflferent modes of applying force. 

Monotone. When the pitch of the voice oontinuos the 


Bamc, and when the same degree of force is kept up from 
the commencement to the close of the sound, it is called 
the monotone. 

Swell. When the force is gradually increased so as to 
swell out the sound as it advances toward the middle, and 
then as gradually vanishes into silence, it is called the 
Bwell, or medium stress. 

Expulsive Ra.dical Stress. In this the force is ap- 
plied so as to swell out the first part of the syllable or 
sound, and gradually diminish on the vanishing part of 
the sound. 

Explosive Radical Stress occurs when the first part 
of a syllable is given with great abruptness and percussive 
force. The short vocals when uttered in this way furnish 
examples of it 

Vanishinq Stress occurs when the sound gradually ex- 
pands as it swells onward, then suddenly terminates with 
a vocal explosion, similar to that heard in the explosive 
radical stress. 

Quantity relates to the length of time the voice dwells 
upon a syllable or word. The following passage, if prop- 
erly expressed, will furnish an example of long quantity: 

"Woe unto thee, Chorazin ! Woe unto thee, Bethsaida!" — 
and the following, of short quantity, if uttered in a tone 
of excitement and defiance : " Fret, till your proud heart 
breaks 1" 

Quality relates to the kind of voice. The words com- 
monly used to describe it aie, clear, husky, harsh, mellow, 
rough, smooth, deep, thin, heavy, light, boyish, girlish. 

Movement relates to the degree of rapidity with which 
the voice moves in the utterance of sounds, syllables, and 
words. The degrees of rapidity are, very slow, slow, mod- 
erate, lively, rapid, and very rapid. 

The rules and exercises in Elocution may be classified 
under the two princioal heads of 



Articulation includes the rules and exercises upon the 
/ilcnientary sounds in syllabication, in analysis, in accent, 
ind in pronunciation. 

Expression includes the rules and exercises which relate 
to the management of the voice, the look, gesture, and 
action, in the expression of thought, sentiment, and passion. 

The exercises in articulation are those to which the at- 
tention of the pupil should be almost exclusively given, 
until a good control of the voice has been obtained. 

A good articulation consists in giving to each element 
in a syllable its due proportion of sound and correct ex- 
pression, so that the ear can readily distinguish every word, 
and every syllable that is uttered. 

A full, pure tone of voice, and a good articulation, con- 
stitute the basis of every other excellence in reading and 


Pure Tone is expressed with less expenditure of breatn 
than any other quality of voice; it is smooth, resonant, 
and agreeable, and entirely free from any aspirated, gut- 
tural, or other impure quality of vocal sound. 

The most severe and sustained exercise of the voice in 
pure tone, if the voice be pitched aright, is not only un- 
attended with any bad effect upon the lungs and throat, 
but, on the contrary, tends to strengthen and invigorate 
them, and fortifies the wlndc svstiMu nirainst the invasion 
of disease. 

To commaiKi a luii, resonant, and pure tone of voice, 
these conditions are indispensable: — 

Firsts a full and copious breathing, as described in ex- 
ercises 1 and 2. 

Secondy a free and iiitinal action if the abdominal 
muscles, in the inhalation and expulsion of the breath. 
Kinn.— 2 


Thirds the muscles which regulate the action of the jaw 
must be relaxed. 

Fourth, the throat and the mouth must be kept well 
open, so as to give free course to the sound. 

Any one who expects to derive practical benefit from the 
following rules and exercises, must study them carefully 
iud practice them regularly, systematically, and energct 
ically. Begin with the first rule, and master it so thor 
oughly that you can readily give a correct exemplification 
of it; then take up the next rule and its accompanying 
exercises, and so proceed to the last example in the book. 



In sounding element No. 1, the teeth must be separated 
about half an inch, and the corners of the mouth drawn 
well backward. 

In No. 2 the teeth must be separated, at least three- 
quarters of an inch, and the corners of the mouth drawn 
farther back than in No. 1. 

In No. 3 the teeth must be separated a little farther still, 
and the opening of the mouth must be more enlarged than 
in No. 2. 

In No. 4 the mouth must be thrown wide open, and the 
corners drawn still farther back than in No. 3. 

In No. 5 the teeth must be separated about the same 
distance as in No. 4, the lips pressed forward and the 
aperture of the mouth diminished. 

In No. 6 the teeth must be brought nearer together, the 
lips pressed farther out, and the aperture of the mouth 
made much smaller than in No. 5. 

In No. 7 the lips must be pressed farther outward, and 
more tightly together than in No. 6. 

To FIND THE Exact Sound op any Element. — Stand 
or sit perfectly at ease, drop the jaw, so as to keep the 
throat and mouth open, then- take in a full breath, draw the 


muscles of the abdomen as far back as possible, retain the 
breath for a few moments, then express in a full, aflfirraative 
tone, any word of one syllable that terminrit*^? with the 
sound in question. 

Continue to dwell upon the last sound in the syllable as 
lung as possible, without changing its character or varying 
the position of the organs of speech, in the slightest degree. 

When you can thus express all the sounds with tolerable 
accuracy, next reverse the position of the sounds, in the 
syllable or word, and practice upon them in that connection. 
(Continue this exercise, at least once a day, until the ear 
becomes so accustomed to the true sound of each of the 
elements, as to be able instantly to detect it, no matter by 
what letter or letters the sound may be represented in the 
syllable or word. 

Do not exert yourself at first, to express the sounds in a 
very loud and forcible manner. Take it easily and go 
slowly at the beginning, and you will soon be able to vo- 
calize with great force, in a full and pure tone of voice. 


Give each of the open vowel sounds in connection with 
tlie subvocals, as arranged in the accompanyini; table, in a 
full, pure, resonant, affirmative tone. 

1 2 8 4 5 7 t/> l(i 17 18 

T*; 71, It. U. aw, 7J, oo, i. oi. ow, tT. 

Be, ba, ba, ba, baw, bo, boo, bi, boi, bow, bu. 

De, da, da, da, daw, do, doc, di, del, dow, du. 

Co, ga, ga, ga, gaw, go, goo, gi, goi, gow, gu. 

Je, ja, ja, ja, jaw, jo, joo, ji, joi, jou, ju. 

Ve, va, va, va, vaw, vo, voo, vi, voi, vow, vu. 

Tlie, tha, tha, tha, thaw, tho, thoo, thi, thoi, thou, thu. 

Ze, za, za, za, zaw, zo, zoo, zi, zoi, zoii, zu. 

Zhe, zha, zha, zha, zhaw, zho, zhoo, zhi, zhoi, zhou, zhu. 

No, TIM. V.  ';0\v. 111!. 


Me, ina, ma, mn. mo, moo, mi, moi, mow, mu. 

(The element ny never begins a syllable.) 

Le, la, la, la, law, lo, loo, li, loi, low, lu. 

Re, ra, ra, ra, raw, ro, roo, ri, roi, row, ru. 

'The soft sound of r never begins a syllable.) 

We, wa, wa, wa. waw, wo, woo, wi, woi, wow, wu. 

Te. ya, ya, yn. yo, yo- a, yow, yu. 


Reverse the position of the elements in the syllables 
giving the vowel sound first. 

In this exercise dwell as lon^ as possible upon the sub- 

in 20 ^j :4 i-j CO i'4 -dh 4i9 S<> "• •"•'?? 3 34 

b, d, g th, z, zh, n, m, ng, 1. w, y. 

Eb, ed, eg, ej, ev, eth, ez, ezh, en, cm, eng, el, er, — ew, ey. 
Ab, ad, ag, aj, av, ath, az, azh, an, am, ang, al, ar, — aw, ay. 
Ab, ad, ag, aj, av, ath, az, azh, an, am, ang, al, ar, — aw, ay. 
Ab, ad, ag, aj, av, ath, az, azh, an, am, ang, al, ar, — aw, ay. 
Awb, awd, awg, awj, awv, awth, awz, awzh, awn, awm, 

awng, awl, awr, — aw, awy. 
Ob, od, og, oj, ov, oth, oz, ozh, on, om, ong, ol, or, — ow, oy. 
Oob, ood, oog, ooj, oov, ooth, ooz, oozh, oon, oom, oong, 

ool, oor, — cow, ooy. 
lb, id, ig, ij, iv, ith, iz, izh, in, im, ing, il, ir, — iw, iy. 
Oib, Old, oig, oij, oiv, oith, oiz, oizh, oin, oim, oing, oil, 

oir, — oiw, oiy. 
Owb, owd, owg, owj, owv, owth, owz, owzh, own, owm 

owng, owl, owr, — ow, owy. 
Ub, ud, ug, uj, uv, uth, uz, uzh, un, um, ung, ul, ur. 


Give each of the short vocals, in connection with the 
accompanying subvocals, as in Exercises I. and II. Prac- 


the syllables until the vocal element can >^e 
uUoieJ with a sharp, ringing sound, like the explosion of 
a percussion cap. 


Give each of the aspirates in connection with the accom- 
f anying open vowel sounds : thus, 

1 2 8 4 5 6 - ir> 16 17 1» 

e, a, a, a, aw, o, oo, i, oi, ow, u. 
Pe, pa, pa, pa, paw, po, poo, pi, poi, pow, pu. 
To, t:i, t;i, t;i, taw, to, too, ti, toi, tow, tu. 
Ko, ka, ka, ka, kaw, ko, koo, ki, koi, kow, ku. 
Che, cha, cha, cha, chaw, cho, choc, ohi, choi, chow, chu. 
Fe, fa, fa, fa, faw, fo, foo, fi, foi, fow, fu. 
The, tha, tha, tha, thaw, the, thoo, thi, thoi, thow, thu. 
Se, sa, sa, sa, saw, so, soo, si, soi, sow, su. 
She, sha, sha, sha, shaw, sho, shoo, shi, shoi, show, shu. 
He, ha, ha, ha, haw, ho, hoc, hi, hoi, how, hu. 
Who, wha, wha, wha, whaw, who, •whoo, whi, whoi, whow, 


Reverse the position of the elements in the syllable, first 

giving the open vowel sound, then the aspirate sound: thu?<, 

85 86 87 8S 89 40 41 42 43 44 

p, t, k, eh, f, th, s, sh, h, wh. 

Ep, et, ek, ech, ef, eth, es, esh, eh, ewh. 

Ap, at, ak, ach, af, ath, as, ash, ah, awh. 

Ap, at, ak, ach, af, ath, as, ash, ah, awh. 

Ap, at, ak, ach, af, ath, as, ash, ah, awh. 
Awp, awt, awk, awch, awf, awth, aws, awsh, awh, awwh. 

Op, ot, ok, och, of, oth, OS, osh, oh, owh. 
Oop, not. ook, ooch, oof, ooth, oos, oosh, ooh, oowh. 

I J ik, ich, if. ith, is, ish, ih, iwh. 

Oij», •; . oik, oicli, oil', oith, ois, oish, oili, oiwli 


Owp, owt, owk, owch, owf, owth, ows, owsh, owh, owwh. 
Up, ut, uk, uch, uf, uth, us, ush, ah, uwh. 


Give each of the aspirate sounds, in connection with each 
f the short yotals, with explosive force: thus, 























































































Reverse the position of the sounds in the syllables, giv- 
ing the short vocal first, and the aspirates last: thus, 

85 80 87 86 89 40 41 42 43 44 

p, t, k, eh, f, th, s, sh, h, wh. 

Ip, it, ik, ich, if, ith, is, ish, ih, iwh. 

Ep, et, ek, ech, ef, eth, es, esb, eh, ewh. 

Ep, et, ek, ech, ef, eth, es, esh, eh, ewh. 

Ap, at, ak, ach, af, ath, as, ash, ah, awh. 

Op, ot, ok, och, of, oth, OS, osh, oh, owh. 

Up, ut, uk, uch, uf, uth, us, ush, uh, uwh. 

Oop, oot, ook, ooch, oof, ooth, oos, oosh, ooh, oowh. 

In the preceding exercises each sound must be expressed 
separately, with great force and precision, before the syl- 


lable is given. On giving the element by iiself, the student 
bUouM name over, at least three words in which it occurs: 
thus, K, as in me, cue, and sea; M, as in more, come, and 
roam; Sh, as in shame, hush, and crash. 

In giving the syllables, take great pains to bring out all 
the sounds in a distinct and proper manner. 



First, give each sound by itself; then, connect the first 
element with the second; next, give the first, second, and 
third, separately ; then, in combination, at a single utter- 
ance. Proceed thus to the end of the word. 


1)(] : Orb'd, prob'd, rob'd, rub'd, sob'd. 

bdst : Prob'dst, fibMst, dub'dst, bob'dst, sob'dst. 

blit : Turabl'dst, fabl'dst, stabl'dst, disabl'dst. 

bis: Stabl's, fabl's, nibbl's, gabbl's, babbl's. 

br : Brave, brown, break, breath, bride. 

dist: Add'lat, padd'Ist, sadd'lst, pedd'lst, fidd'lst. 

fldst: Baffl'dst, raffl'dst, shuffl'dst, muffl'dst. 

gdst : Beg'dst, haggl'dst, bag'dst, flog'dst. 

kldst: Tackl'dst, buckl'dst, truckl'dst, twinkl'dst. 

Idst : Ilold'st, mold'st, bold'st, gild'st. 

mdst : Tam'dst, trim'dst, seem'dst, dream'dst. 

ndlst: Hand'lst, kind'lst, fond'lst, trifl'dst. 

ngd : RangM, hing'd, hang'd, ringed, 

rjd : Mcrg'd, charg'd, cnlarg'd, forgM. ^ 

ridst : FnrlMst, snarl'dst, whirl'dst, hurl'dst. 


rmdst : Arm'dst, charm'dst, form'dst, storm'dst. 

rndst: Tum'dst, lumMst, scom'dst, spurn'dst. 

rchd : ArchM, march'd, search'd, parch'd. 

ngst: Ilang'st, wrong'st, bring' st, wing*8t. 

ngth : Length, strength, ngs : Songs, wrongs. 

bdst : Barb^dst, prob'dst. rjd : Urg'd, scourg'd. 

rkdst : WorkMst, thank'dst. plst : Ripp'lst, tipplst. 

rnd : BumM, turn'd, spurned, warned. 

rvd : Curv'd, swerv'd, served, starv'd. 

rtst : Ilurt'st, part*8t, smartest, report'st. 

skst : Bask'st, mask'st, frisk*st, kick'st. 

sld : Nestl'd, bristl'd, wrestl'd, jostFd. 

Ihd : Breath'd, wreathed, sheath'd, bequeathed. 

Ills : Breath's, wreath's, sheath's, bcqueath's. 

thst : Wreath'dst, breath'dst, sheath'dst, bequeath'dst.\ 

tld : Nettl'd, setU'd, battlM, bottl'd. 

tldst Nettl'dst, settrdst, throtl'dst, bottl'dst. 

vdst: Liv'dst, deceiv'dst, ^rov'ldst, believ'dst. 

vldst : Drivcrdst, grovel'dst, shovel'dst. 

zld : Dazz'ld, muzz'Id, puzz'ld. 

zldst : Dazzl'dst, muzzl'dst, puzzl'dst. 

zm : Chasm, spasm, zms : Chasms, spasms. 

nz : Pris'n, ris'n. znd : Impris'nd, reas'nd. 

znz : Seas'ns, prisons, znst : Impris'nst. 



Express with great distinctness and precision, the sounds 
3(rhich compose each letter of the alphabet, giving the 


name of each sound, and the class to which it belongs: 
thus, B, the first sound of the letter B, is the subvocal B; 
the second sound of b, is the open yowel sound of E. 

C, the first sound of C is the aspirate S; the second sound 
is the open vowel sound of E. 

Do not go through this, or any other of the exercises, in 
a careless, languid manner; but with as much earnestness 
ab if something of great importance depended upon your 
doing it correctly. 



Analyze the following words as in Exercise IX; then 
express each element singly, and with great precision ; next, 
designate the accented syllable, then pronounce the words 
with varying degrees of force, but always with a sufficient 
degree to mark the accent well, and to bring out clearly 
and distinctly every syllable and every sound. 


Personification, Perpendicularity, Intercommunication, 

Recapitulation, Irresistibility, Incontrovertibly, 

Etyraologically, Horizontally, Generalissimo, 

Valetudinarian, Interrogatively, Metaphorically, 

Allegorically, Discrimination, Emphatically, 

Congratulation, Nonconformity, Incomprehensibility. 

The foregoing exercises, if faithfully practiced, according 
to instructions, two or three times a day, will, in a few 
weeks, break up the worst faults in articulation, and in- 
crease the compass, power, and flexibility of the voice, to an 
extent truly astonishing. 




Express each of the monothong vowel sounds, thus: take 
a fall breath and utter each of the sounds in succession, in 


as pure, sabdued, and yet distinct a tone as poseible; con- 
tinue to prolong the sound as directed, until the lungs 
are nearly emptied, then let it gradually die away into 

In your first efforts in this movement, give the sounds in 
your natural key, or pitch of voice, when you can give them 
orrectly on that key; then practice upon them, sometimes 
in a higher, and sometimes in a lower pitch, increasing the 
force or loudness as much as you please, so that the tone 
of the voice is kept clear and resonant. 

Whenever, on changing the pitch or increasing the force, 
the voice runs into a thin, aspirated, guttural, or disagree- 
able tone of any kind, stop at once, and rest until you feel 
perfectly at ease. Then carefully begin again in your 
conversational pitch and tone of voice. 

Above every thing else be sure you keep the tone pure 
and resonant. 

The chiefs difl&culty the student will experience in this 
and some other of the vocal exercises, is that of keeping 
the throat and mouth wide enough open. 

Unless the pupil is very mindful of the conditions to be 
observed, he will gradually close the mouth, until the teeth 
are brought close together, before the sound is finished, the 
inevitable consequence of which is a smothered, imperfect, 
and lifeless utterance of the syllable or word. A liberal 
opening of the mouth is a condition absolutely indispensable 
in giving the voice the full effect of round, smooth, and 
agreeable tone. 

This common and very bad habit of reading, speaking, 
and singing with the throat and mouth almost closed, may 
be entirely broken up by vocalizing, for a short time every 
day, with a gag in the mouth, according to the following 

Cut a piece of hard wood, the thickness of a pipe stem, 
and about an inch in length ; place this perpendicularly 
between the teeth, and proceed to vocalize, in any pitch 
within the compass of your voice, and with* as much force 
OS you can command. Let the gag remain in its place until 
the jaw aches considerably, before you remove it. 


Practice with a gag about an inch long, two or three 
limes a day, for several minutes at a time, until you can 
keep the mouth thus far open without any difficulty. After- 
ward cut another about an inch and a half in length, and 
practice with it between the teeth, until you can vocalize 
with it in the mouth for three minutes at a time, without 
experiencing any very disagreeable feeling. Then cut 
another, still longer, and practice with that in the same 



Place the breathing apparatus in a proper condition, and 
utter each of the open vowel sounds, thus : 

Commence the sound in a very subdued tone, which 
gradually increase or swell out, until the sound is full and 
deep; then let it as gradually diminish in force, until it 
vanishes with a sound so light and delicate that the ear 
can scared}' distinguish its close. 

The words marked in capitals, in the accompanying ex- 
Rmples, must be given with the prolonged swell. 

The pupil must exercise his own judgment as to the de- 
gree offeree to be employed: his aim ouglit to be to bring 
out the sense and sentiment of the whole passage, in an 
appropriate and effective manner. 

1. Dut see him on the edge of life, 
With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, On! ill-matched pairl 
Show man was made to mourn. 

li. Woe unto thee, Cliorazint Wob unto thee, Bethsaidal for if ihi 
mighty things which were done in you, had been done in Tyre und 
Ridon, they would have repented long ago, in sackcloth and in ashes 

8. An I then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tkars, and tremblings of distrow 
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, 
Blushed at the praise of their own lovelineM. 


4. On! sacred Tiuth, thy triumphs ceased awhile, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with tlieo to smile. 

6. An I why will Kings forget that they are men, 
And men that they are brethren I 

0. Oa! that I had the wings of a dove, that [ might fly away 
and be at rest I 

7. Oh for a iongut to curse the slave, 

Whose treason, like a poison blight, 
Comes o'er the counsels of the brave, 
And blasts them in their hour of might I 


In the wave, which is a form of the swell, the v(»icc risei 
aud then falls, or falls and then rises, while the force is 
increasing or diminishing. The modifications of the swell 
and the wave are innumerable. 



Express in a clear, full, affirmative tone, in the order m 
vhieh they are arranged upon the chart, the words con- 
*^ining examples of the open vowel sounds, as follows : 

First, pronounce each word as if in answer to a question 
addressed to jou by a person but a short distance from 
you, using the words / said, in connection with the word. 
[ Baid me. Between the words said and wie, take a short 
breath, and draw the abdominal muscles well back, that 
you may be enabled to bring out the word me with proper 
force and quantity. 

Continue in this manner to utter the words with iu- 
areasing force and earnestness; but be careful to keep the 
voiee down, and avoid every thing like a tone of excitement. 

Exemplify the Expulsive Radical Stress, on the wards 
iLarked in the following examples. 

1. Rise! fathers, Rise! — 'tis Rome demands your help. 

2. Hold ! hold for your lives ! 

'i. Forward, the Light Brigade! 


4. Who PARES to FLY from yonder sword — he cries, 
Who DARES to TREMBLK, by this weapon, dim. 

6. To ABMsl to ARMS I to ARMS I thcy cry. 

6. Awake! arise! or be forever fallen. 

7. Roll on! thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll. 

Most of the preceding examples require the intensive 
form of the Expulsive Radical Stress, to give them with 
proper effect. 



Inflate the lungs, and, as it were, bar up the breath in 
the throat, keep the abdominal muscles drawn back tight, 
then by the sudden, vigorous action of every part, cause 
the sound to burst forth with the utmost abruptness and 
with the highest degree of energy. First, give each of the 
vowel sounds in this manner, then select a number of 
words, such as slave, wretch, coward, as in the passage, 
"Thou SLAVE, thou WRETCH, thou COWARD I" and prac- 
tice upon these words and sounds, with varying degrees of 
force, but always with a well marked radical stress. 

Give the following examples with proper spirit. Let the 
emphatic words be brought out with great abruptness and 
intense force. Take care to keep the voice within its 
range ; if you let it spring into a very high pitch, you will 
be unable to control it. 


1. Thy threats, thy mercies I DEtrt 
And give thee, in thy tekth, the lib! 

2. I LOATHE you with my bosom; 

I 8C0R.V you with mine eye; 
ril TAUNT you with my latest breath, 
And riQHT you till I die! 

S. Down soothless insultcri 


4. Aud if thou sayst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Highland or Lowland, far or near, 
Lord Angus, thou hast lied I 

5. Go from my sight! I bate and I despisk thee I 
G. RorsB, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves! 
7 He DABBS not touch a hahi of Cataline. 

8. Strike! till the last ann'd foe expires. 
Strike! for your altars and your fires, 
Strike! for the green graves of your sires, 
God — and your native land. 



The mode of expressing these sounds is the same as Id 
the Explosive Radical Stress, with this slight difference: in 
the explosive short vocals the sound continues but an in- 
stant, while in the Explosive Radical Stress the vanishing 
sound is always heard, and sometimes greatly prolonged. 

Pronounce the words marked in the following passages 
with the utihost explosive force, and in a tone of passionate 
excitement. Practice, in this form of stress, upon the 
short vocals, singly, in syllables, and upon words until 
you can utter any of them in the middle, low, or high 
pitch of the voice, with that percussive force, that may be 
compared to the crack of a rifle. 


1. Whence and what art thou? Execrable shape! 

2. Back to thy punishment, false fugitive ! 

3. Fret, till your proud heart breaks! 

4. Hexce ! HOUE 1 ye idle creatures ! get you home. 

6. You BLOCKS — ^you stones — you worse than senselMS things. 

6. Up comrades, up! — in Rokeby's halls, 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 

7. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge 1 



The vanishing stress begins with a light and gentle sound, 
which gradually increases in volume, and suddenly tcrnii- 
nates with a heavy and violent sound. This form of stress 
but seldom occurs in speech. 

This is one of the best exercises for strengthening the 
voice, but the student must have forcible examples of it 
from the living teacher, before he can understand it suf- 
ficiently well to practice upon it with any decided advan- 

The pupil should practice regularly and frequently, upon 
the elementary sounds, on words, and on short passages in 
2very form of stress, and in the lowest pitch of voice in 
which he can command a clear, full tone. 



Put on a mirthful look, draw back the corners of the 
mouth, as in laughter, and laugh out successively each of 
the short vocal sounds. Let the tone of voice be subdued, 
and the movement slow, at first, but rapidly increase, then 
diminish the degree of force and rapidity with which the 
sounds are uttered. 

Occasionally intersperse the exercises with one of the 
open vowel sounds, expressed with long quantity. In this 
manner you will relieve yourself, and be enabled to utter 
the sounds more like those which are heard on the spon- 
taneous breaking forth of real laughter. 

This is one of the most valuable of the vocal exeroisos, 
whether considered with reference to the deepening and 
mellowing of the voice, which results from it, or frum the 
itrengthening and invigorating effect it has upon the throat 
and lungs. It is highly promotive alike of health of body 
and cheerfulness of mind. It should, however, be conducted 
with great moderation at first. As soon as the pupil begins 
to feel somewhat exhausted by his efforts, he should rest 




Take t: sounds in the order in which they occui 

ujx'ii ill. .('ginning with E, and ask tlie (iiu,'sti:.ri 

Did l/uii i ,, J.. Ill your natural t(uie, and iiiaruicr ol" ask- 
ing a question; then answer tin 4iusiion affirmatively, thus: 
Fe«, 1 said E. 

In the qiipsii..ii K t the voice glide into a higher pitch 
on t: lit, or syllable which is the subject of experi- 

inrni. in iiie affirmation let the voice fall into a lower 
pitch, and take a deeper, fuller tone. 

Use the words, Did you say? and l^es, 1 s</i,l : in con- 
nection with the .1. 111. tit syllable, or word, until you no 
longer nird i!m i ide you to distinguish the true 

sound of the interrogative or the affirmative tones. When 
you can readily do this, then illustrate both ♦ones on the 
same word, thus : 

Questioji. Cincinnati? Aru. Cincinnati. 

" Gen. Washington ? " Gen. Washington. 

" Constantinople? " Constantinople. 

" A? " A. &c. 

Continue to increase the force and earnestness, in exem- 
plifying these tones, until you have a perfect control of 



Commence as if about to ask a question, but let the 
coice run up rapidly, on the principal syllable, or word, 
into a very high key, and terminate with great abruptness. 

Puttinjr on the look and appearance, which are charac 
oristic of the emotion, will greatly aid you in bringing out 
the true sound. 

Express the following examples slowly, at first, and 
gradually increase the rate of utterance. Pronounce every 


wcrd and syllable, clearly, distinctly, and with the utmost 

Whenever you discover that there is the least indistinct^ 
ness, or that the words or syllables run into each other, 
stop and commence again, more slowly and carefully. 

Give the examples in every pitch, within the compass of 
your voice, and with varying degrees of force, from the 
suppressed whisper, up to the loudest tone you can com'- 


1. The steadfast stranger through the forest strayed. 

2. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide. 
8. Round the rude ring the ragged rascals ran. 

4. The wild beasts struggled through the thickest shade. 

6. The swinging swain swifUy swept the swinging sweep. 

6. Execrable Xantippe exhibited extraordinary and excessive 

"* Six brave maids sat on six broad beds, and braided broad 

8. The Binpling stranger strayed through the struggling stream 

9. The rough and rugged rocks rear their hoary heads high on the 

10. Peter Prickle Prangle picked three pecks of prickly pears, 
ftpom three prickly, prangly pear trees. 

11. Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone. 

12. Amidst the mists and coldest frosts, 
With barest wrists and stoutest boasts, 
He thrusts his fists against the posts, 
And s^.ni in»IsLs he sees the ghosts. 


How does the water 
Come down at Lodore? 

From its sources which well 

In the tarn on Uie fell; \ 

From its fountains 

In Uie mountains, 
Its rills and its gills; 

'1 LLuuLliuN. 

Through moss and through brakv 
It runs and it creeps, 
For a while, till it sleeps 

In its own little lake. 
And thence at departing, 
Awakening and starting, 
It runs through the reeds, 
And away it proceeds, 
Through meadow and glade; 
In sun and in shade, 
And through the wood-shelter, 

Among crags in its flurry, 


Here it comes sparkling. 
And there it lies darkling; 
Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in. 
Till, in this rapid race. 

On which it is bent, 
It reaches the place 

Of its steep descent. 

The cataract strong 
Then plunges along, 
Striking and raging, 
As if a war waging 
Its caverns and rocks among: 
Spouting and frisking, 
Turning and twisting, 
Around and around 
With endless rebound: 
Smiting and fighting, 
A sight to delight in, 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dixxying and deafening the ear with its souna. 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. 
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, 
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing, 
And so never ending, but always descending, 
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending. 
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar: 
And this way, the water comes down at Lodore. 


The pupil should carefully practice the various exercises 
upon the elementary sounds, and in articulation, until he 
can utter every sound, syllable, word, or combination of 
elements, with perfect distinctness and accuracy, and in a 
clear, full tone of voice. 

Much advantage may be obtained from practicing in com- 
pany with some one, who is competent to detect your faults 
of utterance and delivery, and is willinpj to point them out. 

The monotone, swell, and all the different forms of stress, 
should be practiced in every pitch of voice, and in every 
degree of force. 

To obtain a full, deep, clear, rich tone, the student must 
resort to every conceivable expedient for modifying the 
voice. Whenever he utters a sound that is very pleasing 
to the ear, or that impresses his mind as being very strik- 
ing or significant, he should repeat it, until he can com- 
mand it without difficulty at pleasure. 

The most significant, impressive, and pleasing tones of 
the voice can not be taught, or even described; the pupil, 
if he ever learns them, must find them out for himself, by 
careful, persevering self practice. In short, he must try 
every plan, and resort to every appliance that he can com- 
mand, in his endeavors to perfect himself in the art of 
reading and speaking with ease, elegance, and impressive 


Expression comprehends the practical application of all 
the rules and principles of Elocution. 


Emphasis relates to the mode of giving expression; 
properly and fully defined it includes whatever modulntioD 
of the voice or expedient the speaker may use, to render 
what he says significant or expressive of the meaning he 
desires to convey. 


No certain rules can be given to guide the student io 
the employinrnt of oninl.nsi<s Jf ]iw y.^'mQ jjg fu|| clear 
flexil.h . he will be able 

to express whut he luUy uudcibtaiiils uiiJ stronu'ly feels, 
in an effrctivo man nor. withont the aid of rules. The best 
advi. ,, tiiig point, is 

to BlU"i> jii> Miitji-ri uiiiii lie tnorougjiiy uiiderstawds it, 
and then practice upon it until he can express it lo his 
own satisfaction. 

A careful observance of the following simple directions, 
will soon enable the student to read in a pleasing and im- 
pressive manner. 

F1R.ST: — Pause long enough to take a short breath, just 
before giving an emphatic word. 

Second: — Pause for a moment immediately after giving 
an emphatic word, letting the voice fall in pitch, and take 
a more subdued tone on the words iinuKdiatcly following. 

Third : — When emphasis is given by simply increasing 
the loudness, or duration of the accented syllable, let the 
voice out freely, and do no* rlie sound before it is 

fully ' ' rd. 

Fo; After expressing a word or syllable with great 

force, as in the intensive forms of the Expulsive or Explo- 
sive Radical Stress, do — * '-^^p the muscles of the neck, 
throat, and tlit>t in i rigid condition they are in 

at the moment of giving the emphatic word; but, instantly, 
let them relax mjkI fnll into a natural and easy position. 

Let me her. the student who intends to pursue 

this sul'joet. not to pass lightly over the first exercises be- 
cause they are simple and unattractive. Success in giving 
the most difiicult passages, will chiefly depend upon a prac- 
tical knowledge of the principles involved in the correct 
nunciation of short and simple sentences. As in Articu 
.ation and 3Iodulation, the student should begin with the 
first example under the first rule, and thoroughly master 
fhaf^ before he takes up the next. 



Cadence signifies that easy, natural dropping of the voice 
at the end of a sentence or passage, which denotes com- 
f»lcteness of sense, or that the speaker has finished what 
he had to say upon that point. 

No specific rules can be given by which to regulate the 
tone and movement of the voice in making the cadence; 
the pupil must rely, mainly, upon his own taste and dis- 
LTimination, After a few days' careful practice of the fol- 
lowing exercises, his ear will detect the slightest variation 
from the true sound of the cadence. 

The simplest form of the cadence can be best illustrated 
by the enumeration of a series of particulars. 

By counting one, two, three, four, five, in a deliberate 
manner, and paying particular attention to the tone of the 
voice on four and jive^ it will be discovered that on jive^ the 
voice falls a little, takes a fuller tone, and has that pecu- 
liar intonation which denotes that the enumeration is 

1 1,2,3^ 1,2,3,4^ 1,2,3,4,5,6^ 1,2,3,4,5,6,7^ 
4. 6. 7. 8. 

Give the open vowel sounds in a clear, full tone, in the 
•>auie manner as in the first example, thus: 

Aw 0, E, I, Oi I, 01, E, A, Aw 

0. Ow. U. 

Give a number of names in succession as in calling the 
oil, thus: 

3. Smith, Chambers, Buttorfield, Edmunds, Morgan, Wilson, Page, 
Jones. ^ 

Connect the last two names or particulars by the con- 
jviurtion and^ letting tho i liitK on the last pax 


ticular but one, and fall, aa in the previous examples on 
the last one, thus: .»•■ 

4. Cincinnati, St Louis, Boston, Louisyille, Philadelphia, v 

hot the cadence in the following passages be formed in 
the same manner as in example 4. 

6. He sinlcs into thy depths with bubbliug groan. 
Without a grave, unknelUd^ uncoJjivLd^ and unhiou 

6. Whatever obscurities may involve religious tenet nee 

\ 'i 3 

of true piety consists in humility ^ love, and devotion. 

7. Be armed with courage against thyself, against thy pcusioru, 
and against flatterers. 

8. In the least insect there are muxelei. nerves, ioinLy vnnx. artfrieg, 

and blood. 

When the concluding series consists of more than three 
members or particulars, the preceding members or partic- 
ulars should receive the modulation which tasts and the 
general sense of the passage suggest. 



In the commencing series the last particular or member, 
should take the rising modulation, and the las* but one, a 
slight falling modulation. 


1. The knowledge, power, wisdom, holiness, and goodnes% of the Deity 
re all unbounded. 

2. Gold, silver, copper, iron, and lead are abundant in various 
parts of the Western Continent. 

3. Proofs of the immortality of the soul, may justly be drawn 
from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, wisdom, and 
veracity, are all concerned in this great point. 

Immediately after expressing the last particular, pause 


for a moment and let the voice drop into its ordinary pitch 
and tone, upon the words that follow. 

The student should practice upon each of the following 
xamples until Ije can exemplify the rule involved, and 
bring out the sense in the fullest, most pleasing, and most 
impressive manner. 


1. Diligence, industry, and proper improvement of their time, are 
material duties of the young. 

2. He is generous, just, charitable, and humane. 

3. In meat and drink observe the rules of Christian temperance 
and sobriety. 

4. If you would be revenged on your enemies, let your life be 

5. Ingratitude is a crime so shameful, that the man was never 
yet found who would acknowledge himself guilty of it, 

6. As you value the approbation of heaven or the esteem of the 
world, cultivate the love of virtue. 

7. The earth is adorned witJi a beautiful variety of mountains, 
hills, valleys, plains, seas, lakes, rivers, trees, flowers, plants, and 

8. Luxury, vanity, and pride, have much influence in corrupting 
the opinions of the multitude. 

9. Make a proper use of your time, for the loss of it can never 
be retrieved. 

10. Envy not the appearance of happiness in any man; for you 
know not his secret griefs. 

11. The shadow of knowledge passeth over the mind of man as a 
dream; he seeth as in the dark; he reasoncth and is deceived. 

12. Do not insult a poor man; his misery entitles him to pity. 

18. A tear is sometimes the indication of a noble mind: Jesus 

14. Every thing grows old; every thing passes away; >rrery thing 

15. A talkative man i« a nuisance to society; the ev \m tiok «f 
bis babbling. 


16. Fear God: He is thy Creator and Uiy Preserrer. 

17. When the battle was ended, the stranger disappeared, and no 
person knew whence he had come, or whither he had gone. 

18. It is not the use of the innocent amusements of life which is 
dangerous, but the abuse of them; it is not when they arc occa- 
sionallj, but when thejr are constantlj pursued, tliat tluy bcccm# 
an evil. 

19. Some men are intent upon gathering riches; others enrlcavor 
Ui acquire reputation and honor; a third sort are deroted 
pleasures; while but few are engaged in the nobler pursuits < 

ing and wibdom. 

20. Truth is the basis of erery virtue; it is the voice of reason; 
let its precepts be religiously obeyed; never transgress its limits. 
Every deviation from truth is criminal. Abhor a falsehood. Let 
your words be ingenuous. 

21. Sincerity possesses the most powerful charm. It acquires the 
veneration of mankind; its path is security and peace. 



In the following examples, read the first part of eacn 
sentcmc in a manner suited to the nature of the subject, 
and make a short pause just before the parenthesis, which 
read more rapidly, and in a more subdued tone. When the 
parenthesis is concluded, resume your former pitch and tone 
of voice. 


1. Know then this truth, (enough for man to know,) 
Virtue alone is happiness below. 

2. I have seen charity (if charity it may be called) insult with 
as air of pity. 

3. I am happy, said he (expressing himself with the wannest 
emotion), infinitely happy, in seeing you return. 

4. Surely in this age of invention, something may be struck 
out to obviate the necessity (if such necessity exist) of so tasking 
the human intellect. 

5. Know ye not, brethren (for I speak to them that know the 
law), that the law hath dominion over a man as long as he liveth? 


C. It is Uiia sense which furnishes the imagination with idco^i 
BO that by the pleasures of the imagination or fancy (terms which 
1 shall use promiscuously), I here mean such as arise from yisibU 



The Rhetorical Pause consists in suspending the voice 
e«ther directly before or after the utterance of an important 
thought. The pause before the principal word awakens 
curiosity and excites expectation ; after, it carries the mind 
back to what has already been said. 

Pauses occur as often where points are not found as 
where they are. Sense and sentiment are the best guides 
in the use of the pause. The student must remember that 
every important modulation, in order to preserve its due 
force and distinctness, requires to be followed by a consid- 
erable pause. 

A pause of greater or less duration is always required 
wherever an interruption occurs in the progress of thought, 
or the uniform construction of the sentence, as in the case 
of the dash, the exclamation, the parenthesis, &c. In these 
instances the mind is supposed to be arrested by the sudden 
change of sentiment or passion. 

1. But this very day, 

An honest man, my neighbor — there he stands — 
Was struck — struck like a dog — ^by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini. 

% Here will I hold. If there's a power above as, 
(And that tlicre is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue: 
And that wliich ho delights in must be happy. 
But when? or where? — This world was made for Cssear 
I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 

3. Slaves to a horde 

Of petty tyrants, feudal despotet lords, 

Rich in some dosen paltry villages-^ 
Kinn I 


Strong in some buudrcd spearmcD— only great 
In thai strange spell — a name. 

4. Thej fought like brave men — long and well; 
They piled the ground with Moslem slain; 
They conquered — but Botzaris fell, 
Bleeding at every vein. 

6. THOU Eternal One! whose pre8euce bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide. 

Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; 
Thou only God! There is no God beside I 

Being above all beings! Mighty one! 
Whom none can comprehend, and none explore: 

Who fiU'st existence with thyself a\one] 
Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
Being whom we call God! — and know no more 

6. Some— -plaee the bliss in action, some — in ease; 
Those call it pleasure, and— contentment, these. 

7. Stand up — erect! Thou hast the form 

And likeness of thy God! — Who more? 
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm 
Of daily life, a heart a*s warm 

And pure as breast e'er wore. 

8. Hush! — Hark I — a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. 

9. We are some of us very fond of knowledge, and apt to value 
oui-selvcs upon any proficiency in the sciences. One science there 
is. worth more than all the rest, and that is — tk^ science of living toell. 

10. Heaven and earth will witness, 

If — Rome must fall — ^that we are innocent 

11. He woke — to die mid flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke. 

12. Thou art thyself thine enemy: 

The great! — what better they than thou? 
As theirs is not thy will as free? 
Has God with equal favors thee 
Neglected to endow? 

True, wealth thou hast not — ^"tis but dust: 
Nor place — ancertain as the wind; 


But that thou hast, which with thy crust 
And water may despise the lust 
Of both — a noble mind. 



^/"press the following examples with the same earnest- 
n»«s of tone, and directness of manner, which you would 
use if the questions were your own, and you felt deeply 
interested in the answer you might receive. 

(s Johii &t home? 

Are you still living with your father? 

Do you think he is honest? 

Are the people willing? 

Whither are you going? 

How many books have you bought? 

Why did you not go m Boston? 

When shall I see you again? 

Who told you that I was sick? 

Whose dog is that? 

What excuse have you for coming so late this morning? 

Did he say that he would do it? 

How many bushels have you? 

Who can view such misery without pity? 

Have you seen Joseph yet? 

Was his progress quick or slow? 
It was slow, very slow. 
Did he pitch his voice high or low? 
He pitched it high, never higher. 
Do you read Greek or Latin? 
I have long read Latin, never Greek. 
Did they confess or deny? 
They confessed and were merely rebuked. 
How does your friend look? well or ill? 
Well; he never looked better. 
How did he move? graoeftilly? 
Graceftillyl Yes — m he always do««. 

44 1. i,uL I TION. 

Was the priie merited or not? 

It was — at least all tliought so. 

Who delirered the message? he or his brother? 

He; his brother is from home. 

Is the stream wide or narrow? 

Very narrow— especially near its source. 

Straight or circuitous? 

Partly straight and partly circuitous. 

And its banks — rugged? 

Ves; but quite accessible, and highly picturesque. 

His speech was not read — it was delirered? 

It was well delivered. 

And well received? 

With enthusiasm — if the applause it obtained is the teti 

The subject was interesting? 

Yes, and is rather popular at present 

Did he speak long? An hour perhaps? 

Longer — two hours — three hours. 

And was well received, you say? 

Enthusiastically — applauded throughout. 

He made an impression then? 

I should think so — at least upon some. 

Then he is likely to succeed? 

Succeed 1 Yes — if he chooses to exert himself. 

The Past— where is it? It has fled. 

The Future? It may never come. 
Our friends departed? With the dead. 

Ourselves? Fast hastening to the tomb. 
What are earth's joys? The dews of morn. 

Its honors? Ocean's wreathing foam. 
Where's peace? In trials meekly borne. 

And joy? In Heaven — the Christian's home. 



Ue attended Divine service regularly. 

Read the above passage so as to place the emphasis firsi 
exclusively upon regularly; then upon Divine service; then 
upon attended; and last upon He. The words immediately 
preceding or following the emphatic word, must be givoo 


10 the usual conversational pitch and tone. Make a ma^-ked 
pause directly after uttering the word which receives ♦lie 

Give the tone of the direct question upon the last word 
of the same passage, so that it will convey the same mean- 
ing that would be conveyed if the question were asked 

Di'J jou say tlmt he attended divine service r^ularlyl 

Then change the seat of emphasis as in the preceding 
exercise. Next express it in a tone of surprise. Give the 
same sentence as a question in a whispered tone; then 
express it as if in answer to the question, in the same 
tone: thus, 

He attended Divine service regularly? 

Ans. He attended Divine service regularly. 

Next, express it both interrogatively and affirmatively, 
in the tone of unimpassioned conversation ; then as if 
carrying on a conversation with a person on the opposite 
side of the street; then as if conversing with a person still 
farther away from you ; and so on, to the utmost extent of 
your vocal capability. 

Express it also both interrogatively and affirmatively in 
a very pleasant tone and manner; in a sullen, surly man- 
ner; in a careless, indiflferent, sleepy tone and manner; in 
a very irritable or excited tone and manner; in a scornful 
or ironical tone ; in a respectful, deferential tone ; in a 
very serious tone, and in a merry, laughing tone. 

Such exercises, carefully pracujed, will, more than any 
other, facilitate the progress of the student, in obtaining 
a command of the tones, looks, and action by which the 
▼arious emotions and passions of the soul are expressed. 



Antithesis is tbundcd upon contrast, cxpro^sed or iii- 
plied. It occurs in a sentence in which two or more 
words are opposed to each other in meaning. Words, tlubl 


express opposite ideas, must be marked by different modu- 
lations, and expressed with greater emphasis, than the 
words that immediately precede, or those which follow 
them. In nearly all cases there should be a marked pause 
directly after the antithetic words, and on the remaining 
words in the passage the voice should take its ordinary, 
nnimpassioned tone. 


1. I come to 6ifry-— Onsar, not to praiu him. 

2. The evU that men do, Vires after them; 
The ffood — is ofl interred with their bones. 

8. It is sown in weakne4$; it is raised in power. It is sown a 
natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. 

4. If ye are beatU^ then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the 
butcher's knife! If ye are men, — follow me I 

6. Comrades 1 Warriors! Thracians 1— if we must fight, let us fight 
for <mr»elvu ! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors i 

6. Had you rather Caesar were <nw^, and die all slaves, than that 
Onsar were daad, and live all Jrtammf 

7. A friend can not be known in prosperity; an enemy can not 
be hidden in adversity. 

8. Speak gently; it is better far 

To rule by love, than fear: 
Speak gently, let no harsh words mar 
The good we might do here. 

9. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign: 
Though pocr^ luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though ^ractf, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; 
And e'en in penanne, planning sins anew. 

10. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 
Men would be angels, angels would be gods; 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
Aipiring to be angels, men rebel. 



A climax is a series of particulars, members, or senten- 
ces, in which each successive particular, member, or sentence 
riiFes in force and importance to the last. 


The pervading pitch, the kind of stress, the rate of utter- 
ance, and the peculiar modulations of the voice, appropriate 
to the correct delivery of any example of climax, the 
student must find out for himself The best rule that can 
be given is to study the passage carefully until he has a 
correct appreciation of it, then to practice upon it until ha 
cau bring out his own conception of its meaning and char 
acter, in a manner satisfactory to himself As a general 
rule, the voice should fall so as to make a partial cadence 
at the close of the first member of the climax, and each 
successive member ought to be given with increasing force 
and earnestness to the last. 


1. I tell you, though you, though the whole world, though an 

angel from heaven, were to declare the truth of it, I would not 
believe it. 

2. But every where, spread all over in characters of living light, 
blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over 
the land, and in every wind under the whole heaven, that other sen- 
timent, dear to every American heart — Liberty and Union, now and 
forever, one and inseparable. 

8. And Donglas, more, I tell thee here — 
Here— in thy pitch of pride — 
Here — in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
I tell thee, thou'rt deJUd. 

4. I will not, must not, dare not, grant your wish. 

6. I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, strong prov- 
ocations, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot celli 
shut up, to leave you in your lazy dignities. 

6. Add to your faith, virtue, and to virtue, knowledge, and t« 
knowledge, temperance, and to temperance, patience, and to patience, 
godliness, and to godliness, brotherly kindness, and to brotherly 
kicdness, charity. 

7. Clarence has oomel false! fleeting I perjured Clareno*' 

8. Days, months, years, and ages shall cirole away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; 
Earth loses thy pattern, forever and aye; 

0, sailor boy 1 sailor boj t peaoe to thy soul. 


0. The c1ou(]-capt towers, the gorgeous ^alaces, 
The Jiolcmu temples, the great globo >»»lf, 
Yea, uU that it inherit, shall dissolve. 
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a wreck behind. 

10. Can you raise the dead? 

Pursue and overtake the wings of time? 
And bring about again the hours, the days, 
The years that made me happy? 


Amplification signifies a diffusive description or discus 
sion, containing such an enumeration of particulars as will 
present the subject in the strongest light. It admits of 
various modes of delivery, according to the nature of the 
suhject and other circumstances. Generally, amplification 
and climax require nearly the same style of delivery. 

Let the pupil study the following examples carefully, 
and use his own discretion as to the style and manner of 
giving them. 

I. To wake the soul by tender strokes of art; 
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; 
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
Live o'er tlie scene, and be what they behold ;- 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage: 
Commanding tears to stream through every age. 

2. Such has been the case witli Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the very 
market-place of trade; without fortune, family connections, or patron- 
age; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught; he has 
conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, having 
become one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force 
of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. 

3. Let not me passions blight the intellect in the spring of its 
advancement, nor indolence nor vice canker the promise of the heart 
in blossom. Then shall the summer of life be adorned with moral 
beauty, the autumn yioid a harvest of wisdom and virtue ?>d ^ th< 


tinier af »ge bo cheered with pleasing reflections >n the past, and 
bright oopes of the fUturc. 

4. We do not pray to instruct or advise God; not to tel) him 
news, or inform him of our wants; nor do wo pray by dint of argu- 
ment to persuade God and bring him to our bent; nor that, by fair 
speech, we may cajole him, or move his affections toward us by pa- 
lb 3tical orations; not for any such purpose are we obliged to pray; 
but because it becometli and behooveth us so to do; because it is a 
proper instrument of bettering, ennobling, and perfectiug our souls; 
because it breedeth most holy affections, and pure satisfactions, and 
worthy resolutions: because it fittcth us for the enjoyment of hap- 
piness, and leadeth us thither: for such ends devotion is prescribed. 

5. We have been discoursing of infancy, childhood, boyhood, and 
youth; of pleasures lying upon the unfolding intellect plenteously as 
morning dew-drops of knowledge, inhaled insensibly like fragrance; 
of dispositions stealing into the spirit like music from unknown 
quarters; of images uncalled for, and rising up like exhalations; of 
hopes plucked, like beautiful wildflowers from (bo ruined tombs tliat 
border the highways of antiquity, to make a garland for a living 
forehead: in a woi-d, we have been treating of nature as a teacher 
of truth through joy and through gladness, and as a creatress of the 
faculties by a process of smoothness and delight. We have made 
no mention of fear, shame, sorrow, nor of ungovernable and vexing 
thoughts; because, although these have been, and have done mighty 
service, they are overlooked in that stage of life, when youth is pass- 
ing into manhood: overlooked, or forgotten. 

6. There various news I heard of love and strife; 
Of peace and war, healtli, sickness, death, and life; 
Of loss and gain; of famine and of store; 

Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore; 

Of prodigies and portents in the air; 

Of fires and plagues, and stars with biasing hair; 

Of turns of fortune, changes in the state, 

The fall of favorites, projects of the great; 

Of old mismanagements, taxations new: 

All neither wholly false, nor wholly true. 

7. Tn all the modern IanguAg«8 she WM 

' •'-•lingly well versed, and had devoted 
I iioir attainment, far more time than has, 
By the best teachers, lately been allotted; 
For she had taken lessons twice a week, 
For a fill! month in each; and she ooold Bfmk 
KlDD. — 5 


French And Italian, equally as well 

A^ riilnese, Portuguese, or German; and 

^'k 11 more surprising, she could spell 

M .1- longest English words, off-hand: 

W.i- .luitc familiar in low Dutch and Spanish, 

AuU iliuught of studying modern Greek and Danish. 



Tr.iii-ition. in Elocution. slLMiifits a suildon change in the 
iuality, (^ of the voice; aa 

from a liigH, to a low pitcli, iroin a suDduod, to a very loud 
tone, from a very slow, to a very rapid rate of utterance, 
and the reverse of these. -, also, to the changes in 

style, as from the pcrsua.'^i*^ i«^ ihe declamatory; also, to 
the expression of passion or emotion, as from grief to joy, 
fear to courage, hope to despair, &c. 

Xn rnl.\> cm 1)0 laid down in relation to the management 
msition, which will be intelligible without 
tliL ir !ig teacher to exemplify them. 

Tiie following exercises, if persevered in for a short time, 
will enable the pupil to make some of the most important 
vocal transitions, with ■^'•'^' "-"d ease. 

iV/>/, — Repeat 1, 2. progressively increasing the 

force and elevating th t' the voice, as in the climax, 

up to the last numbei. .mulu pronounce with great force, 
then pause l\n- a niouient, and pronounce G. 7, 8, 9, very 
slowly, in the lowest and deepest tone you can command. 
Increase the number of particulars gradually, as you find 
jou are acquiring the power to sustain the voice, in great 
force, upon a higher pitch. 

Secoii'l, — Repeat the open vowels in the same way, tlien 
the short vowels, then the short and open vowels irregularly 
interspersed, letting the last in a series be an open vowel. 

Third. — Give a number of words Oi names, with inereas- 
luy: foi're and r;;i)idity. to the last one: then pause and let 
the voict' jfoio instructed, and *rive other names or 


words vory slowly, with long quantity, and in the lowQot 
pitch of the voice that you can reach. 

Fourth, — Select for yourself a few suitable short passagefl, 
and exercise upon them in the same way as upon tho vctral 


1. Were I an American, as I am an Englishman, while a si^gli 
foreign troop remained in my country, I would never lay do^m my 
arms, Xever I Never! Never I 

2. An hour passed on, tlic Turk awoke; 
That bright dream was his last: 

He woke to hear his sentry shriek, 
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!'' 

3. Charge! Chester, Charge! Ox, Stanley! on! 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

4. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to 
haTo an itching palm, to sell and mart your offices for gold to undc- 

I an itching palm? — You know that you are Brutus that speak 
this, or by the gods this speech were else your last. 

5. If influenced by local pride, or gangrened by slate jealousy, I 
get up here to abate a tithe of a hair from his just character and 
just fame — may my tongue cleave to tlie roof of my mouth. 

6. God of the Mariner! protect 

Her inmates as she moves along, 
Through perils which ere now had wrecked — 

But that tliine arm is strong. 
Ha! she has struck — she grounds — she stands, 
StiU as if held by giant hands. 

Qtdck, man the boat! — away they sprani^ 

The stranger ship to aid; 
And loud their hailing voices rang, 

And rapid speed they made: 
But all in silence, deep, unbrokc, 
The vessel stood — none answering spoke. 

'Twas fearful — not a sound 
No moving thing was tliere, 

To interrupt the dread repoM 
Which fiU'd each heaH with fear. 


7. Hush! hark I a deep sound strikes like a rising knell 
Did ye not hear it? — No: 'twas but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: 
On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet: — 
But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before ! 
Arm! arm! it is! — it is! — the cannon's opening roart 

8. Her giant form 

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 

Majestically calm, would go, 

'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow! 

But gently now the small waves glide. 

Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. 

So stately her bearing, so proud her array. 

The main she will traverse forever and aye. 

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast! 

—Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her iast 

Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread, 

Are hurried o'er the deck; 
And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck, 

9. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in tlie ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar. 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum. 

Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star; 
While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, 
iw whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come I' 



In emphatic repetition, the repeated word or words should 
be given with increased force and earnestness the second 
time uttered, and so on, increasing the intensity of expres- 
sion with each repetition. 



1. But whatever may be our fate, bo assured, be asmred that this 
ieclaration wrill stand. 

2. RUe, fathers I rise! 'tis Rome demands your help. 

8. 65» / comrades, up! — in Rokeby's halls, 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 

L Woe! Woe! Woe, unto tlie inhabitanta of the earth! 

6. Arm! Arm! it is I — it is! — the cannon's opening roar! 

6. The temples of the god's, the gods themselves, will justify tiie 
cry, and swell tlie general sound, Revenge! Revenge! Revenge! 

7. Peace! Peace! — To otlier than to me, 
Thy words are evil augury. 

8. Hold, liold! for your lives! 

9. Holdy fiold! the general speaks to you. 

10. Stretch to the race! — Awag! — Away! 

11. To arms! to arms! to arms! they cry. 

12. "On/ On/"— was still his stern exclaim, 
•^Cor\/ront the battery's jaws of flame! 

13. Lo! anointed by Heaven with tlie vials of wrath. 
Behold where he flies on his desolate path! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight: 
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 

14. ^^Revengel — Revenge!" — the Saxons cried. 

16. To arttu! — To arms!" — a thousand voices cried. 

16. "Who dares to fly from yonder swords," — he crieSi 
Who dares to tremble^ by this weapon dies. 

17. 5tomi— Bayard! — Stand! — the steed obey'd, 

18. War! War! — aloud with general voice they cry. 

Repetition, when properly expressed, gives great bcautj 
tod irapressiveness to the passage in whieh it oceurs. 



Wlien men are moved by passion, or are intensely in 
•arnest in argumencation, tbey naturally express what they 


would aHinn or deny by vehement interrogation, thus ex- 
hibiting the strongest confidence in the truth of their 

Most of our finest examples of senatorial and argumen- 
tative eloquence abound with the interrogation. 

The pupil should carefully study the following examples, 
until he clearly understands them ; then, as far as possible, 
he should bring himself under the influence of the proper 
spirit, and give the passage, in an appropriate tone and 
manner, with directness, force, and earnestness. Pause at 
the end of every question, as if you waited an answer; 
this will render your tone and manner much more direct, 
natural, and eflfective. 

Keep the voice full and clear, and in a pitch in which 
you ctj readily control its modulations. 


1 . But wherefore thou alone ? wherefore with thee came not all hell, 
broke loose? 

2. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak! 
for him have I offended. "Who is here so rude that would not be a 
Roman? If any, speak! for him have I offended. Who is here so vile 
that will not love liis country? If any, speak! for him have I 

8. Tried and convicted traitor! Who says this? Who'll prove it 
at his peril on my head? 

4. Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we here idle? 
What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life 
so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains 
and slavery? 

6. Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair — is not he — our venerable 
colleague near you, are not you both already the proscribed and 
predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from 
all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while 
the power of England remains, but outlaws? 

6. They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so 
formidable an adversary; but when shall we be stronger? Will it 
be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally 
disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every 


Iioiise? Shall wo gather strength by irresolution and inaction? 
Shall we acquire the means of eiTectual resistance by lying supinely 
ujxjn our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope until our 
encraies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, 
if we make a proper use of tlie means which the God of nature hath 
placed in our power. 

7. He that planted the ear, shall ho not heui i.u itmi iuimuu die 
eye, shall he not see? he that clmstiseth the heathen, shall he not 
correct? he that teacheth man knowledge, shall he not know? 

Thou therefore that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself? 
ihou that preachest, a man shall not steal, dost thou steal? thou 
chat sayost a man shall not commit adultery, dost thou commit 
idultery? ihou that abhorrcst idols, dost thou commit sacrilege? thou 
•Iiat makes! thy boast of the law, through breaking the law, dis- 
h:nor«»s*. tUou God? 

8. Whence is man; 

Why formed at all; and wherefore as ho is; 
Where must he find his maker: with what ritea 
Adore him? Will he hear, accept and bless; 
Or does he sit regardless of his works? 
Has man within him an immortal seed; 
Or does the tomb take all? If he survive 
His ashes, where? and in what weal or wo? 

9. 'Tis strange the miser should his cares employ, 
To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy; 

Is it less strange the prodigal should waste 

His wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste? 

10. Is it the cold and languid speaker, whose words fall in such 
sluggish and drowsy motion from his lips, that they can promote 
nothing but the slumbers of his auditory, and minister opiates to the 
boJy, rather than stimulants to the mind; is it the tinlettered fanatic 
without method, witliout reason, with incoherent raving, and vocife- 
rous ignorance, calculated to fit his hearers not for the kingdom of 
heaven, but for a hospital of lunatics; is it even the learned, inge- 
aiouR and pious minister of Christ, who, by neglect or contempt of 
Uic oratorical art, has contracted a whining, monotonous sing-song 
delivery to exercise the patience of his flock, at the expense of 
cUier Christian graces? or is it the genuine orator of heaven with 
a heart sincere, upright, and fervent: a mind stored witu thnt uni- 
vei-tial knowledge, required as the foundation of the art> with a 
genius for the invention, a skill for tJio disposition, and a voice for 
the elocution of every argument to convince and ever> sentiment t« 
persuade ? 



No definite rules can be given for the regulation of the 
pitch of the voice. The nature of the sentiment and dis- 
criminating taste must determine the appropriate key-note 
dT delivery. 


To obtain good control of the voice in a high pitch, 
practice upon such examples as the following with great 
force, in the highest key in which you can manage the 
voice. Remember to drop the jaw, so as to keep the mouth 
and throat well open, and whenever the voice breaks into 
a falsctte, or impure tone of any kind, stop immediately, ard 
rest for a few moments, then begin again. 


1. Boat ahuy I Boat ahoy ! 

2. Charcoal I Charcoal! Charcoal! 

8. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! 

4. Up drawbridge, grooms! — what, warder, ho! 
Let the portcullis fall. 

6. Follow your spirits, and upon this charge, 

Cry, God for Harry! England! and Sl George! 

6. The combat deepens: On, ye brave! 
Who rush to glory or the yr:ive. 

7. Bursts the storm on Phocis' walls ! 
Rise f — or Greece forever falls. 

8 Vet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, 
Risfi I Fellow-men ! — our country yet remains. 

9. Quick! man the boat! 

10. "Jump far out, boy, into the wave ! 
Jump, or 1 fire P he said : 

"This chance alone your life can save. 
Jump ! Jump f the hoy obeyed. 

11. To arrru! To arms! — a thousand voices cried. 


Most of the examples in Repetition are appropriate ex- 
amples for practice in high pitch and sustained force. 

The foregoing exercise is one of the very best for in- 
creasing the compass and flexibility of the voice; but the 
student, to profit by it, must practice frequently, and wim 
;ll the force he can command. 



The best way to obtain a good control of the voice in a 
low pitch, is to practice such exercises as those given under 
REPETITION and HIGH PITCH, until you are somewhat fa- 
tigued with your exertions, then, after resting the lungs 
and vocal organs, for two or three hours, practice in the 
lowest and deepest tone you can command, upon passages 
which require the deepest, lowest, and most prolonged tones 
of the voice. 

If found very laborious and difficult to sustain a full, 
clear, and resonant tone in a low key, rest a few nroments 
occasionally, and then, "try again." 


1. How hollow groans the earth beneath my treA<l; 
Is there an echo here? methinks it sounds 

As though some heavy footstep followed me: 
I will advance no farther. 

2. My soul was hushed within me, and a dread 

Of what I knew not, charmed mine awe-struck thought 
The breeze that rustled in my hair, seemed fraught 
With murrauriugs, as if the ocean dead 

Were moaning in their sleep; the billows brought 
Strange voices to mine ears, as if they soughl 
Communion; and the white moon, overhead, 
Beem'd whispering to my soul in every ray she shed. 

8. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! 
Come to tlie mother, when she feels, 
For tlie first time, her first-born's breath ; — 


Come, when the blessed 
Thai close tlic pestilence sre broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; — 
Come in consumption's ghastly form — 
The earthquake shock — the ocean storm — 
Come, when the heart beats high and wann, 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine — 
And thou art terrible; — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

4. How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear tlieir marble heads, 
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof, 
By ita own weight made steadfast and immovabU, 
Looking tranquillity 1 It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight: the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart 

6. At dead of night, 

In sullen silence stalks forth Pestilence: 
CoxTAGiON, close behind, taints all her steps 
With poisonous dew: no smiting hand is seen; 
No sound is heard; but soon her secret path 
Is marked with desolation: heaps on heaps 
Promiscuous drop. No friend, no refuge, near: 
All, all is false and treacherous around, 
All that they touch, or txiste, or breathe, is Death I 

C. Thou breathest ; — and the obedient storm is still , 
Thou speakest; — silent, the submissive wave: 
Man's shattered ship the rushing waters fill; 
And the hushed billows roll across his grave. 
Sourceless and endless God ! compared with Thee, 
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream; 
And time, when viewed through Thy eternity. 
Less than the mote of morning's golden beam. 

7 Why shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 
'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 


Eternity! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought 1 
Througr. what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we puss I 
The wide, tli' unbounded proapect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 

8 Night, sable goddess, from her ebon throne, 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden scepter o'er a slumbering world. 
Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound ! 
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause. 
An awful pause, prophetic of her end. 

9. Now o'er the one half world 

Nature seems dead; and wicked dreams abuse 

The curtained sleep; now witchraft celebrates 

Pale Ilecate's offerings; and withered murder, 

Alarumed by hij sentinel, the wolf, 

Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 

Toward his design 

Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set earth t 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk; for fear 

The very stones prate of my whereabout, 

And take the present horror from the time, 

Which now suits with it. 



The tones of the voice can Jdo rapidly deepened, strength- 
ened, and improved in quality, by practicing upon syllables, 
Vords, and short passages, in the most intensive and sus- 
tained forms of the Expulsive, and the Explosive Radicni 

To give the accompanying examples with proper effect, 
the student must exert every energy of body and mind. 
By pursuing this course, he will soon increase the power 
and flexibility of his voice to a surprising extent, and, also, 
iicquirc a directness of tone and earnestness of manner, 
which will be invaluable to him as a public speakor 



1. I scorn your proffer' tj treaty: the pale-face I i^*y, 
Rstengf is stamped upon my spear, and blood, my battle-cry 

2. Our brethrea are already in the field, 
Why stand we here idle? 

8. Tried and convicted traitor! Wno $^t this? 
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head ? 

4. lie DARES not touch a hair of Catiline I 

6. RonsK, je Soman* I Ronss, je slates I 

6. I laid me flat along, and cried in thralldom to the furious winds, 
«»Bu>w ON I Uiis is tlie land of liberty!'' 

7. Thou dost BELTS him, Percy! thou dost belie himl He never 
iid encounter with Glendower. 

8. Unmanner'd rool stam> tiiou. when I command! 
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, 

Or, by Saint Paul I I'll strike thee to the earth, 
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. 

9. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! 

10. What in the world he is, 
That names me traitor, villian-like he lies: 
Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach, 
On him, on tou— WHO NOT?— I will mainUin 
My truth and honor firmly. 

11. Strike I — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike! — for your altars and your fires; 
Strike! — for the green graves of your sires — 

God, and your native land ! 

12. Back to thy punishment, 

False fugitive! and to thy speed add wings; 

Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue • 

Thy lingering, or, with one stroke of this dart, 

Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before! 

13. Whence and what art thou, execrable shape! 
That dafst, though grim and terrible, advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way 

To yonder gates? Through thera I mean to pass — 
That be assured — without leave asked of thee: 
Retire! or taste thy folly; and learn by proof, 
IIell-borx ! not to contend with spirits of heaven. 



!. Ahl life is a journey of wearisome hours, 

That the rose of enjoyment but seldom adorns; 

And the heart that is soonest alive to the flowers, 

Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. 

1 Thou unrelenting Past! 

Strung are the barriers round thy dark domain; 

And fetters, sure and fast, 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

3. Ye've gathered to your place of prayer, 

With slow and measured tread; 
Your ranks are full, your mates all there, 

But the soul of one hath fled. 
Tread lightly, comrades, ye have laid 

His dark locks on his brow, 
Like life, save deeper light and shade. 

We'll not disturb them now. 

4. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame, fresh and goryj 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. 
But left him — alone in his glory. 

5. Ahl few shall part, where many meet, 
The snow shall be their winding sheet^ 
And every turf beneath their feet, 
Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. 

6. Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set; — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Deatli! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross tlie sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

7. Tei half I hear the parting spirit sigh, 

'' It is a dread and awful thing to die !" — 
Mysterious worlds un traveled by tlio sun, — 
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, — 
From your un fathomed shades, and riewleaa spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 


EXJ-:i;'i-i: xix. 


Qnrintity relates to the duration, or length uf time tiikcii 
up in the utterance of a syllable or word. The word roar 
\> ail example of lon^' quantity ; the word pU of short 

iAT liie following words be pronounced in the swell, in 
the expulsive radical stress, and in the explosive radical 
stress, with varying degrees of force, Imt always prolonging 
them to the utmost extent possible without changing their 
character, or giving them in a manner the least akin to a 

By pronouncing the words as if you were speaking to 
some one fifty or a hundred yards away, you will soon form 
the habit of bringing out the vocals and sub-voculs in a 

clear, strong, and prolonged tone. 



Star. jmIc, law, bold, scorn. u down, shame, slave, all. lo. 

rave, lime, hail. roar, praise, own, Avnere, moon, plume, law, wail, 
calm. \\\v\ Avhv. shore, roll, ale, wall, hold, me, knell, lie, home, blow, 
rise, noon, cold, etc. 

One of the greatest beauties of delivery consists in a full, 
clear, prolonged utterance of the open vowel sounds ; all of 
which are eminently susceptible of long quantity, as are 
many of the sub-vocals when properly expressed. Words 
that end with these sounds generally ought to terminate 
with a prolonged and well-defined delicate vanish. 


Words are uttered slowly or rapidly, according to the 
predominating feeling. In anger or excitement of any 
kind, we cut them short, and hurry over them rapidly. In 
grief, solemnity, adoration, and all the deeper emotions of 
the soul, we dwell upon the words, and utter th?m vcrv 




1. And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and lol there w»i 
• great earthquake. And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, 
and the moon became as blood ; and the stars of heaven fell unto the 
earth, even as a fig-tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken 
of a mighty wind. And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is 
rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of 
their places. And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the 
rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bond- 
man, and every free-man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks 
»f the mountains; and said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, 
and hide us from the face of Him that sitteth on the throne, and from 
the wratlx of the Lamb: for the great day of his wrath is come; ap«i 
who shall be able to stand ? 

2. Beneath those rugged elms, that yevr-trce s shade, • 

Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, — 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, — 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum. 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return. 

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to sh&re. 

8. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, tlicu existence: — Lonl! on thee 
Eternity had its foundation; — all 

Sprung forth from Thee, — of light, joy, harmony, 
Sole origin : — all life, all beauty thine. 

Thy word created all, and dotli create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 

Thou art and wert and shalt be ! Glorious ! great ! 

I L'ht^giving, life*8U8taining Potentate I 

4. u lx)r<i : have mercy upon us, miserable offenders! Sparc iht>L 
those, God ! who confess their faults according to thy promises, 
declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord, and grant, oh I most 
mercifiil Father, for his sake, that we may hereafter live » godly 
righteous, and sober life, to the glory of thy Holy Name. 



1. Quick I man the life boat! see yon bark, 
Tliat driTCS before the blast: 
There's a rock ahead, the fog is dark. 
And the storm comes thick and fast; 
Can human power, in such an hour, 
Avert the doom that's o'er her? 
Her mainmast is gone, 
But she still drives on. 
To the fatal reef before her: — 
The life boat! man the life boat I 

2 Where's Harry Blount? Fitz EusUce, whertf 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare? 
Redeem my pennon — charge again, 

Cry — Marmion to the rescue! — Vain, 
To Dacre bear my signet ring: 
Tell liim his squadrons up to bring. 
Let Stanly charge, witli spur of fire, 
With Chester charge and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host, 
Or Victory and England's lost! 
Must I bid twice? hence, varlets, fly I 
(ftlowly) Leave Marmion here alone — to die I 

3 Talk not to me 

Of odds or match ! — When Comyn died, 
Three daggers clashed within his side! 
Talk not to me of sheltering hall ! — 
The Church of God saw Comyn fall I 
On God's own altar streamed his blood; 
While o'er my prostrate kinsmen stood 
Tha ruthless murderer, e'en as now — 
Wit}\ armed hand and scornful brow — 
Up ! all who love me ! — blow on blow 
And lay the outlawed felons low! 



Exclamation shows that the mind is laboring with some 
strong emotion. It should bo expressed in that tone and 
manner which arc appropriate to the passage. Let tho 
pupil exercise his own taste and judgment as to the ma«i' 
ncr of giving the following 


1. Ye, who have hearts of pity I ye, who have experienced the an- 
guish of dissolving friendship! who have wept, and still weep over 
tlie moldering ruins of departed kindred 1 — ^ye can enter into the 

2. Jerusalem I Jerusalem 1 thou that killest the prophets and 
stonest them tlmt are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered 
thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under 
her wings, and ye would not. 

3. Who would not exchange the misgivings and the gloom, that 
overhang this skeptical creed, for the inflexible faith, the ardent hope, 
the holy rejoicing of him who doubts not for a moment the future 
reign of universal peace? 

4. Grave! where is thy victory? 
Death! where is thy sting? 

6. What, sweetness, what purity, in his manners! what an affect- 
ing gracefulness in his instructions! what sublimity in his maxims! 
what profound wisdom in his discourses ! what presence of mind, 
what sagacity and propriety in his answers! how great the command 
over his passions! 

G. How hard it is to conyince Christians of these things ! how hard 
to bring them to act on the broad, simple, uncompromising precepts 
of the gospel ! how next to impossible does it seem for them to regu- 
late their thoughts, words, and deeds, and all the influences they are 
perpetually exerting over others, by the purifying and self-sacrificing 
tkumility of the gospel I 

7. Did you, sir, throw up a black crow ? — Not I ! — 
Bless me I how people propagate a lie! 

8. How ghastly the visage of death doth appear; 

How frightful the thought of the shroud and the bier; 
And the blood-orested worm — how vile I 
K I ni» - -«> 


9. How friendly the hand that faith is now lending*. 
How benignant her look o'er the pillow while bending. 
How sweet, how assuring, her smile ! 

10 Great Heaven I how frail thy creature man is made* 
How by himself insensibly betrayed ! 

11. Not one shall survive to be enslaved; for ere the tri-colored 
flag shall wave over our prostrate republic, the bones of four millions 
of Americans shall whiten the shores of their country I 


Personation is the representation by a single reader or 
speaker, of the words, manners, and actions of one or several 

The student should practice frequently and carefully 
upon such pieces as require personation in connection with 
narration and description. Such exercises are peculiarly 
fitted to break up monotonous and unimpressive habits of 


One of the most important matters to be considered 
before engaging in a reading or declamatory exercise, is 
the style or manner, in which the piece should be given. 

In A.RGUMENT, the style must be characterized by direct- 
ness and earnestness. 

In DESCRIPTION, the speaker must proceed in precisely 
the same manner that he would if he were actually describ- 
ing the thing spoken of. 

In NARRATION, he must proceed as if narrating some part 
of his own experience. 

In PERSUASION, he must use those tones, looks, and ges- 
tures only, which he knows are appropriate to persuasion. 

In EXHORTATION, he must appeal, beseech, and implore, 
as the case may require. 


In pieces of a mixed character, he must vary the style 
to suit the sentiment and character of the passage. 

When the pupil understands the principles and rules 
which have heen discussed, sufficiently well to be able to 
give a correct, practical exemplification of each of them, he 
ought to select passages for himself, suitable as exercises 
in cadence, pause, parenthesis, antithesis, climax, amplifica- 
tion, repetition, and transition; also in pitch, force, stress, 
movement, quantity, in personation, in style, and in every 
rule in modulation and expression. 

He must especially practice in every kind of stress, and 
with every degree of force, from the most subdued whisper 
to the shout of enthusiastic exultation. 


Gesture, to be appropriate and impressive, must be natu- 
ral. When gesture has its origin in the mere caprice of the 
speaker, it will appear artificial and out of place. 

The speaker who is unable to manage his voice, is never 
easy and graceful in his gestures. 

If the voice is exercised on too high a key, or in a harsh, 
aspirated, guttural, or impure tone of any kind, the attitude 
will be stiflf and awkward, and the gestures broken, irre- 
gular, and difficult. But the speaker who has a good com- 
mand of his voice, if he understands his subject, and is 
self-possessed, will speak with ease ; and his gesticulation, 
if not always graceful, will be appropriate and expressive. 

Before the pupil can be easy and natural in his action 
and gesticulation, he must have perfect control of his voice. 
Any attempt, therefore, which he may give to th3 cultivation 
of gesture and action, before he has obtained a good control 
of his voice, will be labor spent in vain. 


StAnd or sit erect, in an easy and graceful position, and 
hold the book in the left hand on a level with the face. 

liOnk froin vonr > r' ' flip nndicnee, as often and as long 


at a time us you can, without missing the place. Make but 
few gestures, and then only when you are looking at your 
audience. To gesticulate while your eye is resting upon the 
book, is not only inappropriate, but ridiculous. 


In didactic or uniui passioned discourse, gesticulation is not 
necessary, farther than occasionally to slightly change the 
position and movement of the hands, or to move the head 
and body sufficiently to look at your audience from right 
to left. In discourse of this character the gestures and 
movements should be executed slowly, and as gracefully as 
possible. In stating unimportant particulars, or speaking 
about matters which require a quiet, narrative style, the 
right arm and hand should be chiefly used. 

There are three positions in which the hand and arm may 
rest, and, by slowly changing from one to the other of these 
positions, stiffness and rigidity in the gestures of the arm 
will be avoided. 

First : Let the arm hang naturally by the side. 

Second : Let the hand rest upon the hip, the elbow thrown 
well backward. 

Third : Let it rest between the buttons of your vest, on 
your bosom. 

In all these positions the muscles of the arm and hand 
must be relaxed, so that the attitude may be, at once, easy 
and natural. 


Descriptive gestures are those used in pointing out or 
describing objects. The pupil will soon acquire skill in the 
use of these, by practicing in accordance with the following 
instructions : 


Pronounce the names of a number of objects near you. 
and, as you mention the name of each, extend the arm and 
point the forefinger or the open hand, in the direction of 


the object, completing the gesture the moment you utter 
the accented syllable of the name or word : thus, 

1. The gentleman on my rights the lady on my left^ the 
vacant chair be/ore me, the books, maps, and pictures all 
around me. 

2. High, Low, Left, Right : on pronouncing the word 
liiou, raise the hand gracefully above the head; on LOW, let 
it fall slowly and gracefully; left, let the arm and hand be 
extended to the left ; on the word right, to the right. 

3. Before commencing the gesture always let the eye 
glance in the direction of the object, concerning which you 
are about to speak. 

4. Do not move the arm and hand to the intended posi- 
tion by the shortest course, but describe a waving line, and 
let the motion be rather slow, until the position is almost 
reached, then let the hand move quickly to its place, in com- 
pleting the gesture. 

When the student has obtained a tolerable command over 
his arms, hands, and lower limbs, let him select for himself 
short passages suitable as exercises in descriptive gesture 
and action. 

1. Their swords flashed in Jront^ 
While their plumes waved behind. 

i. His throne is on the mottntain top. 
Ilia fields the boundless air, 
And hoari/ hills, that proudly prop 
The tkiei, his dwelling are. 

3. Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below. 

4. Death in iha front, destruction in the rear. 

6. See tlxrougli this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter qnick, and bursting into birth. 


The ffead and Face. 
The hanging down of the head denotes shame, or grief 
The holding of it up, pride or courage. 
To nod forward implies assent. 


To toss the head back, dissent 

The inclination of the head impli('»* c\iflidrnc<! or lancjur . 

The head is averted, in dislike or horror. 

It leans forward, in attention. 

The Eye*. 
The eyes are raised, in prayer. 
They weep, in sorrow. 
They burn, in anger. 

They are downcast or averted, in shame or -vu^f. 
They are cast on vacancy, in thought. 
They are cast in various directions, in doubt and <inxiety 

Tlie Arms. 

The placing of the hand on the head, indic»ter p'^in ot 

On the eyes, shame or sorrow. 

On the lips, an injunction of silence. 

On the breast, an appeal to conscience. 

The hand is waved, or flourished, in joy or contempt. 

Both hands are held supine, or they are applied, or 
clasped, in prayer. 

Both are held prone, in blessing. 

They are clasped, or wrung, in affliction. 

They are held forward, and received, in friendship. 

The Body. 

The body held erect, indicates steadiness and courage 

Thrown back, pride. 

Stooping forward, condescension or compassion. 

Bending, reverence or respect. 

Prostration, the utmost humility or abasement. 

The Lower Limbs. 

The firm position of the lower limbs signifies courage oi 

Bended knees indicate timidity, or weakness. 
The lower limbs advance, in desire or courage. 
They retire, in aversion or fear. 
Start, in terror. 


Stamp, in authority or anger. 
Kneel, in submission and prayer. 

These are a few of the simple gestures which may I* 
termed significant. 



To exhibit a passion correctly, you must never attempt 
its imitation, till the imagination has conceived so strong 
an idea of it, as to move the same impressive springs within 
the mind as those by which that passion, when uncoerced, 
has been excited. 

Before you attempt to give any passage of pathos or of 
passion, be sure that you understand every thing about it, 
necessary to be understood in order to render it correctly; 
then as far as able put on the appearance, and use the 
tones and action by which the feeling you wish to express 
is characterized. In this way you will soon acquire the 
art of bringing yourself, to some extent at least, under 
the influence of any feeling that you understand and 

" The different passions of the mind must be expressed 
by different tones of the voice. Love, by a soft, smooth, 
languishing voice; anger, by a strong, vehement, and ele- 
vated voice; joy, by a quick, sweet, and clear voice, sorrow, 
by a low, flexible, interrupted voice ; fear, by a dejected, 
tremulous, hesitating voice; courage, by a full, bold, and 
low voice; and perplexity, by a grave, steady, and ear- 
nest voice. In exordiums the voice should be low, yet 
clear; in narrations, distinct; in reasoning, slow; in per- 
suasions, strong; it should thunder in anger, soften in sor- 
row, tremble in fear, and melt in love." 



1. Thou slave I thou wretch! thou cowftrdi 

Thou little valiant, great in villainy t 
Thou ever strong upon tho stronger side! 


Thou fortune's champion, thou dost never fight 
But when ner humorous ladyship is by 
To teach Jiee s^fetj! Thou art perjured too, 
And sooth'st up greatness! What a fool art thou, 
A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp, and sweat, 
Upon my party ! Thou cold-blooded slave, 
Hast tliou not spoke like thunder on my side? 
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend 
Upon thy stars, tl»y fortune, and thy strength ? 
And dost tliou now fall over to my foes? 
Thou wear a lion's hide? DoflF it for shame. 
And hang s calfs skin on those recreant limbs. 


2. Oh I sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight! 

In darkness dissolves tlie gay frost-work of bliss — 
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, 
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? 

Oh ! sailor-boy I sailor-boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in tlie main. 
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form, or frame, from the merciless surge; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge. 


8. I '11 have my bond; I will not hear thee speak: 
I '11 have my bond ; and therefore speak no more 
I '11 not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, 
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
To Christian intercessors. Follow not; 
I '11 have no speaking! I will have my bond. 


4. My daughter, once the comfort of my age, 
Lured by a villain from her native home, 
Is cast, abandon'd, on the world's wide stage. 
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 

My tender wife, sweel soother of my care ! 

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree. 
Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair ; 

And left the world to wretchedness and me. 

vocaI culture. 78 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old mau, 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span: 

Ohl give relief, and Heaven will bless your stoi-e. 


6. what a rogue and peasant slave am I; 
Is it not monstrous, that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion. 
Could force his soul so to his own counsel, 
That, from her working, all his visage warmed, 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, 
A broken voice, and his whole functions suiting. 
With forms to his conceit; and all for nothing; 
For Hcc-u-ba! What's Ilec-u-ba to him, or he to Hec-u-ba, 
That he should weep for her ? 


6. Ah! mercy on my soul! What is that? My old friend's ghost? 
They say none but wicked folks walk; I wish I were at the bottom 
of a coal-pit. See ! how long and pale his face has grown since his 
death: he never was handsome; and death has improved him very 
much the wrong way. Pray do not come near me ! I wish'd you very 
well when you were alive; but I could never abide a dead man, 
cheek by jowl with me. 

Ah, ah, mercy on us ! No nearer, pray ; if it be only to take leave 
of me that you are come back, I could have excused you the cere- 
mony witli all my heart ; or if you — mercy on us ! no nearer, pray, 
or, if you have wronged any body, as you always loved money a 
little, I give you the word of a frightened Christian; I will pray a.«! 
long as you please for the deliverance or repose of your departed souL 
My good, worthy, noble friend, do, pray disappear, as ever you would 
wlah your old friend to come to his senses again. 


7. Tou souls of geese, 

That bear the shapes of men, how have you run 

From slaves that apes would beat! — Pldto and hkllI 

All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale 

With flight and agucd fear! — Mend, and charge homs, 

Or bj the fireA of neaven, 1*11 leave the foe, 

And make my wars on TOU: look to't: Com omI 


8. Would he were fatter; but I fear him not: 
Yet, if my name were liable to fear, 

KiDD— 7 


1 do not know the man, I sliould avoid 

So soon as this spare Cassius. lie reads much; 

He is great observer, and he looks 

Quite through ihe deeds of men. 

lie loves no plays; he hears no music; 
Seldom he smiles ; and smiles in such a sort, 
Aff if he mocked himself^ and scorned his spirit, r,,nl.J l)e moved to 8mil'> ■» ciy thing. 
 s he, bo never oase, 

Wii.ic liity behold a greatoi uum memselves, 
And therefore, are they very dangerous. 


9. Oh! I have passed a miserable night, 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 
That, as I am a Christian faith Hi 
I would not spend another such 
Though 't were to buy a world of happy days, 
So full of dismal terror was the time I 
My dream was lengthened after 11 k-: — 

Oh! then began the tempest to my soul! 

. methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Ki: ; :ae, auJ liowlod in luine cur.s 

Such hideous crit ise, 

I trembling wakcu, o^....... ..i.^r, 

Could not believe but that I was in hell; 
Such terrible impression made my dream! 

KK'^rnv VTION. 

10. Tliou, vl .10 mourner's tear, 

How dark iius world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 
We could not fly to thee ! 

The friends who in our sunshine live. 

When winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give 

Must weep those tears alone. 

But thou wilt heal that broken heart 
^^ hich, like the plants that throw 

Their fragrance from the wounded part, 
Breathes sweetness out of woe. 


11. Search, there; nay, probe me; search my wounded rema, 
Pull, — draw it out,— 


Oh! I am shot! A forked, burning arrow — 
Sticks across my shoulders : the sad venom Hies 
Like lightning thro' my Uesh, my blood, my marrow. 
Ha! what a change of torments I endure! 
A bolt of ice — runs hissing — thro' my body : 
'Tis sure — the arm of death; give me a chair; 
Cover me, for I freeze^ my teeth chatter, 
And my knees knock together. 


12 A fearful hope — was all — the world contained : 
Forests were set on fire ; but, hour by hour. 
They fell, and faded, and the crackling trunks 
Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. 
The brows of men, by the despairing liglit. 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as, by fits, 
The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down, 
And hid their eyes, and wept; and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up, 
With mad disquietude, on the dull sky. 
The pall of a past world; and then again. 
With curses, cast them down upon the dust, 
And gnashed their teeth, and howled. 


18 How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
I hate him, for he is a Christian ; 
But more, for that, in low simplicity. 
He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance with us here in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
1 will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him! 
He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls interest. — Cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him! 


14. Seems, madam I nay, it is: I know not seema, 
'T is not alone my inky cloak, good mother. 
Nor customary suits of solemn black. 
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath; 

No, nor i\'.- fVi.iifni ii\«T ;■■ '!'•» •«y««, 


■• Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, 

Togctlicr with all forms, modes, shows of grief, 
TImt ctin denote me truly : these, indeed, seem, 
For they are actions that a man might play; 
But I have that — within, which passeth show, 
These — but the trappings and the suits of wo. 

If). I would that now 

1 could forget il" tnnnk who stands before me; 
For he is lik( scd and crafty snake ! 

lience! from lu, ».^..i I — Thou Satan, get behind me; 
Go from my sight ! — 1 hate and I despise thee ! 
These were thy pious hopes; and I, forsooth, 
Wa« in thy hands a pipe to play upon ; 
And at thy music my poor soul to death 
Should dance before tliee I 
Thou stand's! at length before me undisguised, 
Of all earth's groveling crew the most accursed, 
rm ! thou viper! — to thy native earth 
1 ; — Away ! — Thou art too base for man 

To tread upon. — Tliou scum I tliou re).ti!o ! 


16. O T>ord, our Lord, how excellent is Tliy name in all the earth! 
who ha!«t set Thy glory above the heavens. When I consider the 
hoavoiis the work of Thy fingers; the moon and the stars, which 
T1k)ii ha?t onlaiiKMl ; what is man that Thou art mindful of him? 
and tl»f? son of man, tliat Tlion visitest him? 

For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast 
crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to have domi- 
nion over the works of Thy hands : Thou hast put all things under his 
•eet Lord, our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth I 


17 Avaunt ! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide theej 
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold : 
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
Which thou dost glare with ! Hence, horrible shadow. 
Unreal mockery, hence! 


18. Thou glorious mirror! where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, — 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
' Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime, — 


The image of Eternity, —the (hrono 

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monstei*8 of the deep are made; each lone 
Obeys thee, — thou gocst fortli, dread, fathomless, alone ' 


19. Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes- 
Gehenna of the waters! thou sea Sodom! 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed! — Slave, do thine office! 
Strike as I struck the fool Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants J Strike deep as my curse! 
Strike — and but once! 


20 All 's for the best ! be sanguine and cheerful. 

Trouble and Sorrow are friends in disguise; 
Nothing but Folly goes faithless and fearful, 

Courage forever is happy and wise: 
All's for the best — if a man would but know it, 

Providence wishes us all to be blest; 
This is no dream of the pundit or poet, 

Ileaven is gracious, and — All 's for the best! 

All's for the best! set this on your standard. 

Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love, 
Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered^ 

A way- wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove; 
All's for the best! — be a man but confiding. 

Providence tenderly governs the rest, 
And the frail bark of his creature is guiding 

Wisely and warily, all for the best. 


21. Still " Onward 1" was his stem exclaim; 
"Charge on the battery's jaws of flame! 
Rush on the level gun' 
Each Ilulan forward with his lance' 
My steel-clad cuirassiers advance 1 
My guard, my chosen, charge for France! 
France and Napoleon!'* 

22. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 

It droppcth as the gentle rain from hearen 
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 
It blesscth him that gives, and him that takes: 

7^ T5L0CUTI0N. 

'Tis mightiest — in the irightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch — better thnn his crown; 
His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe — and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy — is above this sceptered sway, 
It is enthroned — in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself: 

And earthly power — doth then show likesi Ood's, 
When mercy — seasons justice. 


28. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath 
disgraced me, and hinder'd me of half a million; Inugh'd at my 
losses, mocked at my gains, scorn'd my nation, thwarted my bargains, 
oool'd my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason? I 
am a Jew I Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands? organs, 
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same 
food; hurt with the same weapons; subject to the same diseases; 
heal'd by the same means: warm'd and cool'd by the same summer 
and winter, as a Christian is? 

If you stab us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do we not 
laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, 
shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will re- 
semble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian what is his humility? 
Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance 
be by Christian example? Whj', Revenge. The villainy you teach 
me, I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the 


24. Thou art, God! the life and light 

Of all this wondrous world we see; 
Its glow by day, its smile by night, 

Are but reflections caught from thee. 
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are Thine I 

When Day, with farewell beam, delays 

Among the opening clouds of even. 
And we can almost tliink we gaze 

Through golden vistas into Heaven, 
Those hues, that make the sun's decline 
So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. 


26. Gone to be married; gone to swear a peace! 
It is not so : thou hast misspoke, misheard 1 


Be wetl advised, tell o'er thy tale again : 
It caunot be! thou dost but say 'tis so; 
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? 
What means that hand — upon that breast of thine f 
Why holds thine eye — that lamentable rheum? 
Be these sad sighs — confirmers of thy words? 
Then speak again ; not all thy former talc, 
But this one word — whether thy tale be true ? 


2G Give thy thoughts no tongue, 

Nor anj* unproportioned thought his act. 
Be thou familiar ; but by no means vulgar. 
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried. 
Grapple tliem to thy soul, with hooks of steel ; 
But do not dull thy palm — with entertainment 
Of ev'ry new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware 
Of entrance into quarrel! but^ being in. 
Bear it, that the opposer — may beware of thee. 

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice, 

Take each man's censure, but reserve tliy judgment. 

Costly thy habit — as thy purse can buy, 

But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy. 

For the apparel — ofl proclaims the man. 

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; 

For loan — oft loses both itself and friend, 

And borrowing — dulls the edge of husbandry. 

This above all — to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day. 

Thou canst not, then — be false to any man. 


17 Shame I shame I that in such a proud moment of life, 

Worth ages of history,— when, had you but hurl'd 
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife 

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world. — 
That then, — ! disgrace upon manhood ! — e'en then 

You should falter, — should cling to your pitifnl breath,- 
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men. 

And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death I 


No matter under what favoring circumstances the student 
^ay be placed, he may attend the best p^'hooU, the besi 


lectures, and have the aid of the best teachers, yet his rea« 
improvement is never effected, and never can be, unless he 
does the work for himself. He can never become a fin- 
ished speaker unless he feels an interest that shall induce 
him to exercise himself in a faithful course of appropriate 
practice, and cultivate his taste and judgment, by careful 
•tudy and critical observation. 

The highest attainment of %rt is the best imitation of 
nature; to attain to excellence in art, the pupil must study 
nature as it exists in the manners of the living age, and 
gather his models from the best society, and the best ora- 
tors, and aim to appropriate and improve them to his own 
benefit, so as to embody in his style the perfections of all, 
without himself becoming the servile imitator of any. 


1. Whenever you fail to give the most significant word 
or words in a passage with the right kind of emphasis, con- 
tinue to repeat the sentence upon which the difficulty 
occurs, if need be, a hundred times, until you can give it 

2. Let it be your constant endeavor to cultivate those 
tones of voice, which are always pleasant to the ear. Before 
you can aff"ect the heart you must please the ear. 

3. Select a few short passages and express them so as to 
convey as many different meanings as possible; also practice 
upon them in every degree of force, pitch, rate of utterance, 
form of stress, and in every quality of voice. 

4. In the delineation of passion and the personation of 
character, the speaker, to be successful, must not only have 
a clear conception of the meaning of the passages, but he 
must be able to excite the right feeling in his own mind, 
and as it were, merge his own individuality in the ideal 
character which he personates. 

5. Before you attempt to give a piece in public, you 
should practice upon it in private, until the words and 
ideas are as familiar to you as the names of your intimate 

6. More declaimers break down in consequence of forget- 


fcing the words of their pieces, than from any other cause. 
The surest way to avoid being caught in such a morti- 
fying predicament, is to repeat the words of your piece 
with the utmost force, and in the most rapid rate of utter- 
ance consistent with accuracy and perfect distinctness, until 
YOU have recited it thus several times, without making any 
mistake. If you do this a short time before declaiming 
your piece in public, you will certainly perform it in a 
creditable manner, providing you fully understand the sen- 
timent and enter into the spirit of it. 

7. Do not be discouraged because your first eflforts to 
improve are unattended with the success you anticipated. 
Remember that "there is no excellence without ^rert< labor." 
The most renowned orators and actors were not at all remark- 
able at the commencement of their career, for extraordinary 
power of voice, or great ability of any kind : they attained 
to eminence by dint of systematic, untiring perseverance. 

8. Never rest satisfied with having done well, but be 
constantly trying to improve and do still better. If inju- 
dicious friends have flattered you into the belief that you 
have a remarkable genius for reading and oratory, the 
sooner you get the foolish notion out of your head the 
better. A young man who believes himself a great genius, 
hardly ever becomes a useful member of society, or a truly 
distinguished man. 

9. Make a practice of criticising your own reading and 
speaking. In this way you will discover many faults in 
your elocution, which otherwise you might never learn. 

10. Don't rely too much upon others for instruction and 
advice, as to how you should read or declaim a passage: 
think it over until you have formed a definite opinion of 
your own about it, — and then deliver it so as to bring ou 
your own conception of its meaning and character — 

"Think for tJiyself— one good idea. 
But known to be thine own, 
Is better than a thousand gleaned 
Prom fields by others sown." 

11. Cultivate a pleasant style and manner in your readiug 


and icclamatory exercises; speak as if it afforded you 
pleasure to engage in them, and pronounce every sentence 
as though you understood and felt interested in what you 

12. Avoid every thing like affectation. Do not try to 
make a great display: let your mind be upon your subject 
and not upon yourself. Lef your tone, look, and gestures 
harmonize: be deliberate, yet evnest and natural, and you 
will be sure to succeed. By naturalness of style I mean 
that common standard which exists in the mind of every 
one, whose taste is not perverted. Every one can tell 
whether the style of the speaker or reader is natural or 

13. When declaiming a piece in public look your audi- 
ence in the face. The eye of the orator and the expressive 
movements of the features often tell with greater effect 
upon an audience than all other a(5tion, or than the senti- 
ments given. A speaker can not commit a greater mistake 
than that of keeping his eyes cast down, averted, or turned 
away from those whom he is addressing. 

14. The tones of public speaking must be formed upon 
those of sensible, animated conversation. The best rule, 
therefore, is to follow Nature; consider how she teaches you 
to utter any sentiment or feeling of the heart. Imagine a 
subject of debate introduced into conversation, and yourself 
bearing a share in it. Think after what manner, with what 
tones and inflections of voice, you would on such an occa- 
sion express yourself, when you were most in earnest, and 
sought most to be listened to by those whom yoii addressed. 
Let these be the foundation of your manner of pronouncing 
in public, and you will take the surest method of rendering 
your delivery both agreeable and persuasive. 

15. Beware of a slavish attention to rules; for nothing 
should supersede Nature, who knows more than Art; there- 
fore, let her stand in the foreground, with art for her ser- 
vant. Emotion is the soul of oratory : one flash of passion 
on the cheek, one beam of feeling from the eye, one thrill- 
ing note of sensibility from the tongue, one stroke of hearty 
p aphasis from the arm, have infinitely more value, than all 


(he rhetorical rules and flourishes of ancient or modern 
times. — The great rule is — be in earnest. 


1. The teacher in Elocution ought to conduct his lessons 
»() that his pupils shall clearly understand every step as they 
advance in their course. 

2. The pupil should be roaster of the elementary sounds, 
and able to exemplify all the fundamental rules, and impor- 
tant exercises relating to purity of tone, articilation, and 
the management of the voice, before he is permitted to 
engage in general reading. 

3. The pupil should not be permitted to read a sentence 
nor utter a sound, until he takes a correct and graceful 

4. Let the passages or selections, which are given to the 
pupil as, be suited to his taste and capacity. The 
surest way to destroy a taste for reading and make poor 
readers, is to require pupils to practice upon pieces for which 
they have no taste, or which they do not comprehend. A 
clear understanding and appreciation of a passage is indis- 
pensably necessary to its correct delivery. 

5. The pupil ought to be made to understand that good 
reading is exactly like good talking. Whenever his read- 
ing performance fails to come up to this standard, he should 
be made to repeat until he gives it correctly. 

G. As soon as the pupil clearly understands a rule, and 
can apply it correctly in a few cases, he should be required 
to seek out, and also invent for himself, examples and illus- 
trations under the different rules. 

7. The great secret of success in teaching elocution and 
vocal culture, consists in calling the attention of the pupil 
to but one thing at a time. When the exercise is in articu 

ation, his attention should be directed exclusively to that. 
When it relates to pitch, he must, for the time, give his 
thoughts entirely to that; so, also, with regard to fcrrce, 
Btress, quality, quantity, etc. 

8. An excellent way to instruct a class in reading, is to 
ask each pupil, when be has read a passage, to state hen 


he re all upon liiiu lor his reaHons. The 

practice ol' requiring pupils to give reasons lor what they 
Bay and do in fl^ir <. l.-.l-.^tl/. fvorciscs, is productive of 
many advanta thcni greater facility in 

expression, greater accuracy in btudy and observation, and 
aids in developing the thinking and reasoning faculties 

Thus tiaiiHil \]ry will not Ic apt tn think they know ^ 
thing unh can clearly express it." 


The only basis upon vl l-li . t'nli t;,,.,^ pure tone of 
voice can be formed, is dec : athing. To do 

this tlie (hot must be well tluown out, the head erect, and 
the throat and mouth opened so wide that the voice will 
meet with no obstruction in its course. 

The great object in commencing any systematic course 
of vocal culture, ought to be to deepen and strengthen the 
voice. To accomplisli tlii<. tlie student must, in his vocal 
exercises, stretch th. n r i ',- ihout the throat and the 
root ot tlie I i!i_ii regulate the action of 

the lower jaw, so ui to lorm the voice lower down in the 
throat than he is in the habit of doing. 


To increase the compass of the voice, declaim short pas- 
sages which require intonse force on a high pitch. The 
pupil will discover, after the voice has been thus taxed to 
its highest capabilities, that it will perform its office with 
surprisingly greater facility and ease on the natural key, 
and in a lower pitch than he could reach before. 

Th3 most contracted and superficial voice may soon bo 
made strong and flexible by this kind of exercise; and it 
can not be improved in any other way. If your voice is 
feeble, practice singing, shouting, and declaiming with the 
utmost force, at the top of your voice, whenever an oppor- 
tunity presents itself, and it will soon acquire sufficicLt 
strength and resonance. 



Habitual speaking and reading in a very loud tone, dis- 
qualify the organs of speech for executing the soft tones 
with facility; yet the voice is greatly assisted in its efibrts 
to acquire the more subdued tones, by being subjected to 
the most energetic vocal discipline, and in the highest 
pitch of the voice. These intensive exercises expand and 
deepen the voice, rendering it more flexible and mellow, 
and bringing it more completely under the control of the 


A beneficial influence is exerted on the voice, by the 
nost vigorous and sustained exercises upon the elementary 
sounds, and by reading and declaiming with the utmost 
force consistent with purity of tone, immediately before re- 
tiring at night. The organs of speech are thus rendered 
flexible for exercise on the succeeding day. Even an in- 
terval of only an hour or two, between the preliminary 
exercise and the subsequent efi'ort, will, in most cases, afi"ord 
the organs of speech time to rest, and resume their natural 

The best course that can be pursued to prepare the voice 
for speaking within a short time, is to repeat all the ele- 
mentary sounds several times in succession; then declaim 
a few select passages; first, with ordinary force, in the 
middle pitch; then, progressively elevate the pitch, and 
increase the force and rate of utterance; lastly, go over 
them two or three tin""^ '•• flic deepest and lowest tone 
you can reach. 


By exercising the voice with great force, for a short time, 
in a very low key — paradoxical as it may seem — you will 
immediately afterward bo able to speak with much greater 
case upon a high key; and by exercising the voice with 
great force in a very high pitch, you will bo able within a 


short timo afterward, to read or speak, with greater cast 
than before, on a low or very low pi^'^v 


"Every person has some pitch of voice in which he con- 
verses, sings, and speaks with greater effect and facility 
than in any other. It should be an object of constant 
solicitude, with every person who desires to become a good 
reader or speaker, to find what the natural pitch of hia 
voice is, and when he has discovered this, let him practice 
with reference to it, until he is able instantly to bring the 
voice from a high or a low to a natural pitch." 

To discover (he natural pitch of the voicc^ let the pupil 
read or speak a didactic passage, in different pitches or keys 
of voice: after a few efforts he will be able to discover the 
natural key or pitch, from its adaptation to his voice. If 
the pupil, when thus experimenting, finds that the pitch is 
wrong, let him suspend the effort for awhile, then renew his 
endeavors until he finds the right one. 


Speaking rapidly, with great force on a high pitch, but 
a short time, tends to tighten and render rigid the muscles 
of the throat and neck, and makes it exceedingly difficult 
for the speaker to procee'd. It, also, excites thirst, which 
increases every time the speaker takes any thing to quench 
it. In a short time the lungs become so wearied that they 
can scarcely perform their functions: the speaker's memory 
grows confused, his thoughts obscure, his language vague 
and indefinite, and his brain so sluggish and dizzy, that he 
is not unfrcquently compelled to stop, or is stricken down 
n an apoplectic fit. 


"When the speaker finds that he is talking in a key io 
which he can not control his voice, he should stop at once, 
and, after resting for a few moments, change the style and 


manner of his discourse; as frgin the argumentative to the 
oidactic, descriptive, or narrative, as the case may require. 


The habit which most public speakers indulge of fre- 
quently drinking while speaking, is a very bad one, and 
most injurious to the vocal organs. The thirst which many 
speakers experience on coming before an audience can not 
be alleviated by drinking: it will disappear as soon as the 
speaker becomes perfectly self-possessed, and feels himself 
at home in his subject, and not before. The more a person 
drinks when speaking, the more thirsty he becomes, and 
the more difficulty he experiences in managing his voice. 
There is no necessity for drinking while exercising the 
voice, no matter how Ion? or how severe the exercise may 


The use of tobacco, in any form, has a deleterious effect 
upon the speaking and breathing organs. It enfeebles the 
nervous system and tends to make the voice dry, harsh, 
husky and inflexible. 

Public speakers who are votaries of the weed, if they can 
not give it up entirely, ought, by all means, to refrain from 
the use of it for several hours previous to speaking or en- 
gaging in any publicvocal exercise. For this brief season 
of self-denial they will be rewarded by a clearness and full- 
ness of tone, and a floxihijity of voice which will surprise 
and delight them 


The public speaker or actor, who is in the habit of taking 
a dram or two before commencing his performance, and an 
occasional sip during its continuance, hardly ever gets 
through with what he nndertakes in a creditable manner. 

The speaker excited by strong drink, usually speaks with 
the utmost force, at the top of his voice; the natural conse 
qucnce is. his memory grows treacherous, his judgment 
bewildered, while the organs of the voice and throat become 
irritritcd ntul inflani. rl I ToarsenGf>8 ensues, which he tries to 


overcome by speaking in still louder tones; the result is. 
his voice soon breaks into a husky, squeaking tone, or 
becomes so thick and intensely guttural, that the words he 
tries to utter are lost in an inarticulate croaking. 

Never resort to stimulants of any kind to raise the spirits 
or strengthen the voice. The excitement they produce in 
the system is unnatural, and, of course, injurious; and the 
strength which they create is certain to be followed by a 
corresponding prostration of power. 


By committing the following questions thoroughly to 
memory, the reader, if he fully understands the rules and 
principles which have been discussed in this treatise, will 
be able to analyze and criticise fully and accurately, so far 
as relates to its elocution, any reading or speaking perform- 
ance to which he may listen. 

The plan is simple, yet, as far as it goes, perfectly adapted 
to the end in view. Each question suggests the proper 
answer, and the answer gives the information sought upon 
that particular point. 

The student ought, in this way, to criticise his own read- 
ing and speaking, and when the investigation results in the 
discovery of some defect in delivery, he should at once cor- 
rect it. 

1. Does he breathe naturally and at proper intervals, as 
he proceeds in his discourse? If not, in what respect does 
he fail to observe the necessary conditions? 

2. Is his voice clear, pure, full, resonant and agreeable? 

3. Is his articulation distinct and accurate, without being 
unnecessarily precise ? If not, what are his faults ? 

4. Does he open his mouth wide enough to give full 
effect to the words uttered, without going to the extreme of 
mouthing ? 

5. Does he modulate his voice correctly, as relates to 
pitch ; or does he habitually speak in the same key ? 

6. Does he speak in too high or in too low a pitch? 


7. Does he indulge in unbecoming transitions in pitch, 
M by changing too suddenly or too frequently from a very 
low and subdued, to a very high and loud tone ? 

8. Does he employ the different forms of stress, with 
suitable variety and proper effect ? 

9. Has he a good command of the swell and wave, of 
the expulsive radical, and the explosive radical stress? 

10. Does he manage the voice with taste and judijfflent, 
in modulating the force to suit the sentiment? 

11. Does ho employ too much force, or not er^ugh? 

12. Does he give proper quantity to tho ^pen vowel 
Bounds, the nasals, and liquids, without lelv.^g them run 
into a singing or drawling tone? 

13. Does he terminate sentences and pannages in which 
the sense is complete, with a correct and picasing cadence? 
• 14. Does he mark his parentheses, paragraphs, and 
changes of subjects, by proper chancca in pitch, force, 
stress, quantity, quality, and movemencr 

15. Does ho speak too fast, or too mow, or has he uni- 
formly about the same rate of utterance ? 

IG. In interrogation, docs he look and speak as if he were 
really asking a question, and felt interested in the answer 
he might receive? 

17. In narration, are his looks, tone, and manner, such 
M you can conceive they would be, were he relating some 
part of his own experience ? 

18. When he attempts a description,. does h'. proceed as 
though he had himself seen, heard, felt, or ip ^qj way known 
that which he tries to describe? 

19. In didactic discourse, is his muunci colloquial and 
familiar, as though he were actually engaged in imparting 
instruction ? 

20. Does ho bring out the meaning of the author from 
whom he reads, or express his own sentiments in an elegant, 
forcible, clear, impressive, and appropriate manner? 

21. Do his tone and manner indicate that ho undersianda 
and feels what he says; or Is there any thing in his de- 
livery which excites the suspicion that he docs not under 
«tand his subject, or that he is not sincere? 

KiDD.— 8 


22. Does he have a style of his own, or does he try to 
imitate the style of another? 

23. In reading or declamation, is his manner earnest and 
natural, or does he try to make too much of his piece, by 
the exhibition of unnecessary passion or excitement? 

24. What are the distinguishing peculiarities of his man- 
ner? Is he pedantic, pompous, timid, theatrical, ministerial, 
effeminate, manly, irascible, simpering, impudent, sullen, 
tame, vehement, conceited, or affected? 

25. Is he addicted to mouthing, sniffling, ranting, whin- 
ing, or any other improper habit, in reading or speaking? 

26. When he attempts to portray passion, are the tones 
of his voice, his look, gestures, and action appropriate to the 
sentiment expressed? 

27. In imitation and personation, does he give distinct 
individuality to the character he personates? 

28. Does he appear to have a clear and correct concep- 
tion of the subject of his personation? If not, in what 
does his fault consist? 

29. Are the expression of the face, the position of the 
head, the attitude, and the action, suited to the subject and 
the occasion? 

30. Do his look, tone, and manner change with the sen- 
timent, or do his features bear the same expression, and his 
attitude and action continue essentially the same? 

31. Does he look his audience in the face, or does he 
cast his eye upon vacancy or let it wander in every direc- 
tion but the right one? 

32. In his reading, declamation, and extemporaneous 
utterance of his own thoughts, does he seem to understand 
and make a proper application of the rules and principles 
explained and illustrated in the preceding pages of thi* 


In conclusion, I commend the careful study of "Hamleti 
advice to the players," to every one who desires to become 
an accomplished reader, or an elegant speaker. It is, in 
itself, a compendium of Elocutionary instruction 

vocal odlturb. 91 

hamlet's advice to the players. 

dpeak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, 
trippingly on the tongue. But, if you mouth it, as many 
of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier had spoken 
my lines. And do not saw the air too much with your 
hands; but use all gently: for, in the very torrent, tern- 
pesfj and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you 
must beget a temperance that will give it smoothness. 

Oh! it oflfends me to the soul, to hear a robustious, peri, 
wig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to 
split the ears of the oroundlinos; who (for the most part) 
are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and 
noise. Pray you avoid it. 

Be not too tame, either; but let your own discretion be 
your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the 
action — with this special observance, that you o'erstep not 
the.modjsty of nature; for any thing so overdone, is from 
the purpose of playing; whose end is, to hold, as it were, 
the mirror up to nature: to show virtue her own feature, 
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the 
times, their form and pressure. 

Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it may 
make the unskillful laugh, can not but make the judicious 
grieve; the censure of one of which, must, in your allow- 
ance, outweigh a whole theater of others. Oh! there are 
players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and 
that, highly — not to speak it profanely — who, having neither 
the accent of Christian, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor 
man, have so strutted and bellowed, that I have thought 
some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not mado 
them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 




1. Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear, 
'T is modulation that must charm the ear. 

That voice all modes of passion can express, 
Which marks the proper word witli proper stresn : 
But nouc emphatic can that speaker call, 
Who lays an equal emphasis on all. 
Some, o'er the tongue tlie labored measures roll, 
Slow and deliberate as the parting toll ; 
Point every stop, mark every pause so strong. 
Their words like stage processions stalk along. 

2. All affectation but creates disgust; 
And e'en in speaking, we may seem too just. 
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows 
Whose recitation runs it all to prose; 
Repeating what the poet sets not down, 

The verb disjointing from ita favorite nouu, 
While pause, and break, and repetition join 
To make a discord in each tuneful line. 

3. Some placid natures fill the nllotted scene 
With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene ; 
While others thunder every couplet o'er. 

And almost crack your ears with rant and roar. 
More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown 
In the low whisper, than temptestuous tone; 
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze, 
More powerful terror to the mind conveys. 
Than he, who, swollen with impetuous rage. 
Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage. 

4. He who, in earnest, studies o'er his part, 
Will find true nature cling about his heart. 
The modes of grief are not included all 

[n the white handkerchief and mournful drawl  
A single look more marks the internal woe. 
Than all the windings of the lenghtened Oh ! 
Up to the face the quick sensation flies, 
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes: 
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair. 
And all the passions, all the soul is there. 





1. A WIDOW at Dort, in Holland, who was very industri- 
ous, was left by her husband with a comfortable house, some 
land, and two boats for carrying merchandise and passen- 
gers on the canals. She was also supposed to be worth ten 
thousand guilders in ready money, which she employed in a 
sail-cloth manufactory for the purpose of increasing her 
fortune, and instructing her children, a son and two daugh- 
ters, in useful branches of business. 

2. One night, about nine o'clock, in the year 1785, a 
person dressed in uniform, with a musket and broad-sword, 
came to her house, and requested lodging. " I let no lodg- 
ings, friend," said the widow; "and besides I have no spare 
bed, unless you sleep with my son, which I think very im- 
proper, on account of your being a perfect stranger to us all. " 
The soldier then showed a discharge from Diesbach's reg- 
iment, signed by the major, who gave him an excellent 
character, and a passport from the governor of Breda. The 
widow, believing the stranger to be an honest man, called 
her son, and asked him if ho would accommodate a veteran, 
who had served the republic thirty years with reputation, 
nith part of his bed. The young man consented; the sol- 
dier was accordingly hospitably entertained, and at a sea- 
MDnable hour withdrew to rest. 

3. Some hours afterward, a loud knock was heard at the 
street door, which roused the soldier, who moved softly 
down stairs, and listened at the hall-door, when the blow« 
wore repeated, and the door almost broken through by a 



sledge, or Home heavy instrument. By this time the widow 
and her daughters were much alarmed by this violent attack, 
and ran almost frantic through different parts of the house, 
exclaiming, "Murder! murder!" The son, having joined 
the soldier, with a case of loaded pistols, and the latter, 
screwing on his bayonet, and fresh priming his piece, whicli 
was charged with slugs, requested the women to keap them- 
selves in a back room out of the way of danger. 

4. Soon after the door was burst in, two ruffians ent^jred, 
and were instantly shot by the son. Two other associates 
of the dead men immediately returned the fire, but without 
effect; when the veteran stranger, taking immediate advan- 
tage of the discharge of their arms, rushed on them like a 
lion, ran one through the body with his bayonet, and while 
the other was running away, lodged the contents of his 
piece between his shoulders, and he dropped dead on the 
spot. The son and the stranger then closed the door a« 
well as they could, re-loaded their arms, made a good fire, 
and watched till daylight. 

5. When the weavers and spinners of the manufactory 
came to resume their employment, they were struck with 
horror and surprise, at seeing four men dead near the house, 
where the soldier had dragged them, before he closed the door 
leading to the street. The burgomaster attended, and took 
the depositions of the family relative to the affair. The 
bodies of the ruflfians were buried in a cross road, and a 
stone erected over the grave, with a suitable inscription. 
The widow presented the soldier, who was seventy years old, 
with one hundred guilders, and the city settled a handsome 
pension on him for the rest of his life. 


1. A RICH man walked abroad one day, 
And a poor man walked the self-same way, 
When a pale and starving face came by, 
With a pallid lip and a hopeless eye ; 
And that starving face presumed to stand 
And ask for bread from the rich man's hand 


But the rich man sallenly looked askance, 
With a gathering frown and a doubtful glance: 
" I have nothing," said he, " to give to you. 
Nor any such rogue of a canting crew ;" 
And he fastened his pocket, and on he went, 
With his soul untouched and his conscience content 

2. Now this great owner of golden store 
ITad built a church not long before; 

As noble a fane as man could raise. 

And the world had given him thanks and praise ; 

And all who beheld it lavished fame 

On his Christian gift and godly name. 

3. The poor man passed, and the white lips darbu 
To ask of him if a mite could be spared; 

He stood for a moment, but n'-t to pause 

On the truth of the tale, or the parish laws ; 

He was seeking to give — though it was but small, 

Fc*" n penny, a single penny was all, 

_iut he gave it with a kindly word. 

While the warmest pulse in his heart was stirred. 

'Twas a tiny seed his charity shed, 

But the white lips got a taste of bread, 

And the beggar's blessing hallowed the crust 

That came like a spring in the desert dust. 

4. The rich man and the poor man died, 
As all of us must ; and they both were tried 
At the sacred judgment-seat above. 

For their thoughts of evil and deeds of love. 
The balance of justice there was true, 
And fairly l)e8towed what fairly was due ; 
And the two fresh comers at heaven's gate 
Stood waiting to learn their eternal fate. 

5. The recording angel told of things 
That fitted them both with kindred wingH; 
But as they stood in the crystal light, 

The plumes of the rich man grew less bright. 
The angels knew by that shadowy sign 
That the poor man's work had been most divine. 
And they brought the unerring scales to see 
Where the rich man's falling off could he. 


6. Full many deeds mgeU weigh. 
But the balance kept au cvrii sway, 

And at last thb church endowment laid 

With its thousands promised and thousands paid, 

With the thanks of prelates by its side, 

In the stately words of pious pride ; 

And it weighed so much that the angels stood 

To see how the poor man could balance such good. 

7. A cherub came and took his place 
By the empty scale, with a radiant grace. 
And he dropped the penny that had fed 
White starving lips with a crust of bread ; 

The church endowment went up with the beam, 
And the whisper of the great Supreme, 
As he beckoned the poor man to his throne, 
Was heard in this immortal tone: 
"Blessed are they who from great gain 
usands with a reasoning brain, 
..w ., .ior still shall be his part 
Who gives one coin \vitli a pitying heart!" 



1. Behold tlie pit at ship, of whose stanchness there 
was not a c'onbt in full five hundred bosoms, that beat joy- 
ousiy, with a common but precious throb of expectancy, 
soon to be clasped to kindred bosoms at home. Behold 
that ship, overtaken by the swift speed of the tempest, and 
after three days ol" prand resistance to its wild scourgings, 
suceuuibiiig suddenly to its overmastering power. When 
the infuriated floods put out the great fires that glowed 
within her heart, and stopped the mighty pulsations of 
her machinery, hope of her rescue from destruction died 
within their souls. A night and a day they were relent- 
lessly tossed on the maddened waves, by the unabated fury 
of the storm. Many had with them great treasures from 
the mines — earned, at the cost of exile from the loved 
ones, to whom they were bearing back the coveted gold, 
which was to transmute poverty into luxury and pain into 


2. Behold those delvers in the mines — making thcni' 
selves ready for the inevitable band-to-hand battle with the 
billows ! How few think of their treasures ! The gold gleams 
vainly on their sight. Its precious accretions through 
months of toil are forgotten, or despised in the paralysis 
of hope, or in the transport of terror. The frail floor that 
q'livers between living men and the hungry jaws of death, 
j« sown deep with golden grains, that in another hour than 
this of shipwreck would have seemed, to now lusterless eyes, 
to infold vast harvests of happiness. 

3. The awful horror of the closing act of this tragedy 
is mitigated by the blessed deliverance of all the women and 
children, and some of the brave men upon the doomed ship. 
When night descended upon the sea, and vailed the great 
death-scene with her black shroud, the helpless ship sud- 
denly hid her desolation from mortal eyes, beneath the wild 
waves; but among the four hundred victims whom she de- 
spairingly surrendered to the arms of her conqueror, there 
was not one woman — not one child. The shriek of agony 
that broke from the lips of the sinking multitude had no 
piercing treble note in its sepulchral diapason. It was the 
deep death-cry of men, of brave-hearted men alone. 

4. But I forbear. The sorrow of that scene is too 
Awful for words. When the agony ceased upon the sea it. 
was only to break forth afresh upon the land. Who shall 
measure it? Who shall trace its tear-stained path over this 
continent? Who shall count the broken hearts and ruined 
hopes of this dread ravage? None but God. None but 
He who let the tempest loose that made the ship its prey; 
none but He who alone can bind up the bleeding hearts, 
and inspire with brighter hopes those whose hopes on earth 
this woe has blighted ; none but He of whom not one of us 
ill dares to ask the question, — 'What doest Thou?' none 
but He to whom every stricken victim of the calamity we 
deplore may say with reverent lips — 'Even so. Father, for 
thus it seemeth good in Thy sight.' 

KlDD— 9 



1. It was a narrow pass, 

Watered with human tears. 
For Death had kept gate 

Almost six thousa 
And the ceaseless ti  orld's feet 

Was ever in my cars — 
Thronging, jostling, hurrying by. 
As if they were only Itorn to die. 

2. A stately king drew near 

This narrow pass to tre&d, 
Around him hung a gorgeous robe. 

And a crown was on his head ; 
But Death, with a look of \viihering scorn. 

Arrested him and said : 
'• In humbler dress must the king n , 

For the crown and the purple are ustit:>s iiere." 

3. Next came " " "" ^? wealth. 

And his proud and bnul, 

And he bore m nis hand a lengthy scroll, 

Telling of sums untold ; 
But Death, who careth not for rank, 

Careth as little for gold: 
" Here that scroll I can not allow. 
For the gold of the richest is powerless now." 

4. Another followed fast, 

And a book was in his hand, 
Filled with the flashes of burning thought 

That are known in many a land ; 
But the child of genius quailed to hear 

Death's pitiless demand : 
" Here that book can not enter with thee, 
For the bright flash of genius is nothing to me 

5. Next came a maiden f\iir, 

With that eye so deeply bright. 
That stirs within you strange sweet care, 

Should you meet on a summer night ; 
But death, ere the gentle maid passed through, 

Snatched away its light: 
" Beauty is power in the world," he saith, 
" But what can it do in the Pass of Death ?" 


A youth of sickly mien 

Followed in thouglitful mood, 
Whose heart was filled with love to God 

And the early brotherhood; 
Death felt he eould not quench the heart 

That lived for others' good : 
" I own," cried he, " the power of love, 
I must let it pass to the realms above !'' 


1. In the principality of Hohenlohc, now a part of tLd 
cingdom of Wirtemberg, is a village called llageubach, 
where, about twenty years ago, the following event took 
place: one afternoon in early autumn, in the tavern -room 
of Ragenbach, several men and women, assembled from the 
village, sat at their ease. The smith formed one of the 
merry company — he was a strong, man, with resolute coun- 
tenance and daring mien, but with such a good-natured 
smile on his lips that every one who saw him admired 
him. His arms were like bars of iron and his fist like 
a forge-hammer, so that few could equal him in strength of 

2. The smith sat near the door chatting with one of 
his neighbors, when all at once the door opened, and 
a dog came staggering into the room, a great, powerful 
beast, with a frightful aspect; his head hanging down, 
his eyes bloodshot, his lead-colored tongue half way out 
of his mouth, and his tail dropped between his legs. 
Thus the ferocious beast entered the room, out of which 
there was no escape but by one door. Scarcely had the 
smith's neighbor, who was bath-keeper of the place, seen 
the animal, than he became deadly pale, sprang up and 
exclaimed, in a horrified voioe, "Good heavens! the dog la 

3. Then rose a terrible outcry. The room was full of men 
and women, and the foaming beast stood before the only 
entrance: no one could leave without passing him. He 
snapped savagely right a: no one could pass him 


without being bitten. This increased the fearful confusion. 
With horror depicted upon their countenances, all sprang up 
and shrunk from the dog. Who should deliver them from 
him? The smith also stood among them, and, as ho saw th« 
anguish of the people, it flashed across his mind how many 
of his happy and contented neighbors would be made 
Qiiscrable by a mad dog, and he formed a resolution, the 
like of which is scarcely to be found in the history of the 
human race, for noble self-devotion. 

4. "Back all!" thundered he, in a deep, strong voice 
•' Let no one stir, for none can vanquish the beast but 
mc! One victim must fall, in order to save the rest; I will 
be that victim; I will hold the brute, and while I do so, 
m::Lo wu«ir escape." The smith had scarcely spoken these 
words when the dog started toward the shrieking people. 
Hut he went not far. "With God's help," cried the smith, 
and he rushed upon the foaming beast, seized him with an 
iron grasp, and dashed him to the floor. A terrible struggle 
followed. The dog bit furiously on every side in a frightful 
manner. His long teeth tore the arms and thighs of the 
heroic smith, but he would not let him loose. Regardless 
alike of the excessive pain and the horrible death which 
must ensue, he held down with an iron grasp, the snapping, 

» howling brute, till all had escaped. 

5. He then flung the half-strangled beast from him 
against the wall, and dripping with blood and venomous 
foam he left the room, locking the door after him. Some 
persons then shot the dog through the windows. Weeping 
and lamenting, the people surrounded him who had saved 
their lives, at the expense of his own. "Be quiet, do not 
weep for me," he said, "one must die in order to save the 
others. Do not thank me — I have only performed my duty. 
When I am dead, think of me with love, and now pray for 
oie, that God will not let me suffer long, nor too much. I. 
will take care that no further mischief shall occur through 
me, for I must certainly become mad." 

6. He went straight to his workshop and selected a strong 
chain, the heaviest and firmest from his whole stock; then, 
with his own hands, welded it upon his limbs, and around 


tbo anvil iirmly. "There," said liej " it^ is' 3onc,**' after 
having silently and solemnly completed the work. "Now 
you are secured, and I am inoffensive. So long as I live 
bring me my food. The rest I leave to God; into his 
hands I. commend my spirit." Nothing could save the 
brave smith, neither tears, lamentations nor prayers. Mad- 
ness seized him, and after nine days he died. lie died, but 
his memory will live from generation to generation, and 
will be venerated to the end of time. Search history 
through, and you will not find an action more glorious and 
sublime than the deed of this simple-minded man — tha 
•mith of Rage n bach. 


1, Quick! man the life-boat! See yon bark 

That drives before the blast! 
There's a rock a-head, the •:i»ht is dark, 

And the storm coraeb unck and fast. 
Can human power in such an hour, 

Avert the doom that's o'er her? 
Her mainmast's gone, but she still drives on 

To the fatal reef before her. 
The life-boat! Man the life-boat! 

2. Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gun 

Booms through the vapory air; 
And see! the signal flags are on, 

And speak the ship's despair. 
That forked flash, that pealing crash, 

Seemed from the wave to sweep her: 
She's on the rock, with a terrible shock, 

And the wail comes louder and deeper. 
The life-boat! Man the life-boat! 

8 Quick ! mat. the life-boat ! See — the crew 

Gaze on their watery grave: 
Already, some, a gallant few, 

Are battling with the wave; 
And one there stands, and wrings his hand«, 

As thoughts of home come o'er him; 


Foi his wife and child, through the tempest wild« 
He sees on the highta before liim. 
Tho lifo-boat I Man the life-boat ! 

4. Speed, speed the life-boat ! Off she goes ! 

And, as they pulled the oar, 
From shore and ship a cheer arose, 

That rang from ship to shore. 
Lifc-saviiig ark! yon fated bark 

Has human lives within her ; 
And dearer than gold is the wealth untold, 

Thou'lt save, if thou canst win her. 
On, life-boat 1 Speed thee, life-boat I 

5. Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on, 

Though darkly the reef may frown ; 
The rock is there — the ship is gone 

Full twenty fathoms down. 
But, cheered by hope, the seamen cope 

With the billows single-handed: 
They are all in the boat! — hurra! they're afloat I 

And now they are safely landed 
By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat! 


1. An old man sat by a fireless hearth, 

Though the night was dark and chill. 
And mournfully over the frozen earth 

The wind sobbed loud and shrill. 
His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray, 

And dim, but not with tears; 
And his skeleton form had wasted away 

With penury, more than years. 

2. A rush-light was casting its fitful glare 

O'er the damp and dingy walls, 
Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair. 

And the venomous spider crawls ; 
But the meanest thing in this lonesome room 

Was the miser worn and bare, 
Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb 

On his broken and only chair. 


8. He had bolted the window, and barred the door, 

And every nook had scanned; 
And felt the fastening o'er and o'er, 

With his cold and skinny hand ; 
And yet ho sat gazing intently round, 

And trembled with silent fear, 
And startled and shuddered at every sound 

That fell on his coward ear. 

4. "Ha! ha!" laughed the miser; "I'm safe at last, 

From this night so cold and drear, 
From the drenching rain and driving blast, 

With my gold and treasures here. 
I am cold and wet with the icy rain. 

And my health is bad, 'tis true ; 
Yet if I should light that fire again. 

It would cost me a cent or two. 

5. But I '11 take a sip of the precious wine ; 

It will banish my cold and fears ; 
It was given long since, by a friend of mine — 

I have kept it for many years." 
So he drew a flask from a moldy nook. 

And drank of its ruby tide ; 
And his eyes grew bright with each draught he took, 

And his bosom swelled with pride. 

6. " Let me see ; let me see !" said the miser then, 

" 'Tis 6C2ie sixty years or more 
Since the happy hour when I began 

To heap up the glittering store; 
And well have I sped with my anxious toil, 

As my crowded chest will show ; 
I 've more than would ransom a kingdom's spoil. 

Or an emperor could bestow." 

7. He turned to an old worm-eaten chest, 

And cautiously raised the lid, 
And then it shone like the clouds of the west, 

With the sun in their splendor hid; 
And gem after gem, in precious store, 

Are raised with exulting smile ; 
And he counted and counted tliem o'er and o'er. 

In many a glittering piln. 



K. Why comes the flush to his pallid brovr, 

While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? 
Why writhes he thus in such torture now ? 

What was there in the wine? 
He strove hia lonely scat to gain ; 

To crawl to his nest he tried ; 
But finding his efforts were all in vain 

He clasped his gold, and — died. 


1. Our noble ship lay at anchor in the Bay of Tangier, 
R fortified town in the extreme northwest of Africa. The 
day had been extremely mild, with a gentle breeze sweep- 
ing to the northward and westward; but toward the close 
of the afternoon the sea-breeze died away, and one of those 
sultry, oven-like atmospheric breathings came from the 
great sun-burnt Sahara. Half an hour before sundown the 
captain gave the cheering order for the boatswain to call 
the hands to go in swimming, and in less than five minutes 
the forms of our tars were seen leaping from the arms of 
the lower yards. 

2. One of the studding sails had been lowered into the 
water, with its corners suspended from the main yard-arm 
and the swinging boom, and into this most of the swimmers 
made their way. Among those who seemed to be enjoying 
the sport most heartily, were two of the boys, Tim. Wallace 
and Fred. Fairbanks, the latter of whom was the son of 
our old gunner^ and in a laughing mood the}' started out 
from the studding sail on a race. There was a loud ringing 
shout of joy on their lips as they put off, and they darted 
through the water like fishes. The surface of the sea vai 
smooth as glass, though its bosom rose in long heavy swells 
that set in from the Atlantic. 

3. The vessel was moored with a long sweep from both 
cables, and the buoy of the starboard anchor was far away 
on the starboard quarter, where it rose and fell with the lazy 
swells, like a drunken man. Toward this buoy the two 
bids made their way, Fred. Fairbanks taking the lead; but 


•vhen they were within about twenty or thirty fathoms of 
the buoy, Tim shot ahead and promised to win the race. 
The old gunner watched the progress of his little son with 
B great degree of pride, and when he saw him drop behind, 
he leaped upon the quarter-deck, and was just upon the 
point of urging him on by a shout, when a cry reached 
bis ear that made him start as if he had been struck with 
a cannon-ball. 

4. "A shark! a shark!" came forth from the captain of 
the forecastle, and at the sound of these terrible words the 
men who were in the water leaped and plunged toward the 
ship. Right abeam, at the distance of three or four cable 
lengths, a sharp wake was seen in the water, where the 
back of the monster was visible. His course was for the 
boys. For a moment, the gunner stood like one bereft of 
sense, but on the next, he shouted at the top of his voice, 
for the boys to turn ; but the little fellows heard him not — 
stoutly the two swimmers strove for the goal, all uncon- 
scious of .the bloody death-spirit that hovered so near them. 
Their merry laugh still rang over the waters, and at length 
they both touehed the buoy together. 


1. O, WHAT drops of agony started from the brow of the 
gunner! A boat had put off, but Fairbanks knew that it 
could not reach the boys in season, and every moment he 
expected to see the monster sink from sight — then he knew 
that all hope would be gone. At this moment a cry reached 
the ship, that went through every heart like a stream of 
fire — the boys had discovered their enemy! 

2. The cry started old Fairbanks to his senses, and 
quicker than thought he sprang from the quarter-deck. The 
guns were all loaded and shotted, fore and aft, and none 
knew their temper better than he. With steady hand, made 
strong by sudden hope, the old gunner seized a priming- 
wire and picked the cartridge of one of the quarter guns; 
then he took from his pocket a percussion wafer and set it 
in it« place, and set b»?k the hammer of the patent lock. 


With a giant strength the old man swayed the breech Df 
the heavy gun to its bearing, and then seizing the spring of 
the lock, he stood back and watched for the next swell that 
would bring the shark in range. He had aimed the piece 
some distance ahead of his mark, but yet a little moment 
would settle his hopes and fears. 

3. Every breath was hushed, and every heart in thai 
old ship beat painfully. The boat was yet some distance 
from the boys, while the horrid sea-monster was fearfully 
near. Suddenly the air was awoke by the roar of the heavy 
gun, and as the old man knew his shot was gone, he sank 
back upon the combing of the hatch and covered his face 
with his hands, as if afraid to see the result of his own 
efforts; for if he had failed, he knew that his boy was lost. 
For a moment after the report of the gun had died away 
upon the air, there was a dead silence, but as the dense 
smoke arose from the surface of the water, there was at 
first a low murmur breaking from the lips of the men — 
that murmur grew louder and stronger, till it swelled to a 
joyous, deafening shout. 

4. The old gunner sprang to his feet and gazed off on 
the water, and the first thing that met his view was the 
huge carcass of the shark, floating with his white belly up 
— a mangled, lifeless mass. In a few moments the boat 
reached the daring swimmers, and, half dead with fright, 
they were brought on board. The old man clasped his boy 
in his arms, and then, overcome by the powerful excitement, 
he leaned upon a gun for support. I have seen men in 
all the phases of excitement and suspense, but never have 
I seen three human beings more overcome by thrilling 
emotions, than on that startling moment when they fir<>t 
knew the effect of our gunner's shot. 


1. In silent horror o'er the boundless waste 
The driver Hassan with his camels past: 
One cruise of water on his back he bore, 
And his light scrip contained a scanty store: 


A fan of painted feathers in his hand, 

To guard his shaded face from 8Corehin«; sand. 

The sultry sun had gained the middle sky, 

And not a tree and not an herb was nigh : 

The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue. 

Shrill roared the winds, and dreary was the view! 

With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man 

Thrice sighed, thrice struck his breast, and thus began: 

" Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, 

When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way I 

2. " Ah ! little thought I of the blasting wintf 
The thirst, or pinching hunger, that I find I 
Bethink thee, Ilassan, where shall thirst assuage. 
When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage ? 
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign ; 
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine? 

3. " Ye mute companions of my toil, that bear 
In all my griefs a more than equal share ! 
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away, 
Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day, 

In vain ye hope the green delights to know. 
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow: 
Here rocks alone, and ceaseless sands are found, 
And faint and sickly winds forever howl around. 
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, 
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way I 

4. "Cursed be the gold and silver which persuai^a 
Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade! 

The lily peace outshines the silver store. 
And life is dearer than the golden ore: 
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown. 
To every distant mart and wealthy town. 
Why heed we not, while, mad, we haste along. 
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? 
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side, 
The fountain's murmur, and the valley's pride,— 
Why think we these less pleasing to behold 
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold ? 
Snd was the hour, and luckless was the day. 
When first from Schiras' walls I bent my way I 


5. " cease, my fears I — all frantic n.s I go, 
Wlien thought creates unnumbered scenes of wo. 
What if the lion in his rage I meet I 
Jft in the dust I view his printed feet: 
And, fearful ! oft, when day's declining light 
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night, 
By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain, 
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train: 
Before them, death with shrieks directs their way, 
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey. 
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day, 
^,^^When first from Schirax' walls I bent my way I 

C. "At that dread hour, the silent asp shall creep, 
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep : 
Or some swoln serpent twist his scales around 
And wake to anguish with a burning wound 
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor, 
From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure I 
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find: 
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind. 
Sad was the hour and luckless was the day. 
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way I 

7. '* 0, hapless youth, for she thy love hath won, 
The tender Zara will be most undone ! 

Big swelled my heart, and owned the powerful maid, 
When fast she dropt her tears, as thus she said : — 
' Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain, 
Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain I 
Yet, as thou go'st, may every blast arise 
Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs! 
Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see. 
No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me.* 
0! let mo safely to the fair return, 
Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn ; 
! let me teach my heart to lose its fears. 
Recalled by wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears." 

8. lie said, and called on Heaven to bless the day, 
When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way. 




1. I've wandered to the village, Tom, 

1 've sat beneath the tree, 
Upon the school-house play-ground, « 

That sheltered you and uie ; 
But none were left to greet me, Tom, 

And few were left to know, 
Who played with us upon the green, 

Just forty years ago. 

2. The grass was just as green, Tom, 

Barefooted boys at play 
Were sporting, just as wo did then, 

With spirits just as gay. 
But the master sleeps upon the hill, 

Which, coated o'er with snow, 
Afforded us a sliding-place, 

Some forty years ago. 

5. The old school-house is altered some ; 

The benches are replaced 
By new ones, very lik(^ the same 

Our jack-knives had defaced. 
But the same old bricks are in the wall. 

And the bell swings to and fro, 
Its music 's just the same, dear Tom, 

'Twas forty years ago. 

4. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill. 

Close by the spreading beech. 
Is very low ; 'twas once so high 

That we could scarcely reach ; 
And kneeling down to take a drink. 

Dear Tom, I started so, 
To think how very much I 've changed 

Since forty years ago. 

5. Near by that spring, upon an elm, 

You know I cut your name. 
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, 

And you did mine the same. 
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; 

'Twas dying sure, but slow. 
Just as she died whose name you cut 

There forty years ago. 


G. Mj lids have long been dry, Tom, 

But tears came in my eyes ; 
I thought of her I loved so welU 

Tiiose early broken ties. 
I visited the old church-yard. 

And took some flowers to strow 
Upon the graves of tliose we luved 

Just forty years ago 

7 Some i^re in the church-yard laid, 

Some eleep beneath the sea; 
But none ar<) left of our old class, 

Kxcen^in^ yon and me. 
And when our time shall come, Tom, 

And we are called to go, 
1 hope we'll meet with those we loved 

Some forty yean ago. 


1. Mrs. Opie, in her "Illustrations of Lying," gives, as 
an instance of what she terms *' the Ho of benevolence," the 
melancholy tale of which the following is the conclusion. 
— Vernon is a clergyman in W*istmoreland, whose youngest 
son, at a distance from home, had. in a moment of passion, 
committed murder. The youth had been condemned and ex- 
ecuted for his crime. But his brothers had kept the cause 
and form of his death concealed from theii father, and had 
informed him that their brother had been taken suddenly ill, 
and died on his road homeward. The father hears the aw- 
ful truth, under the following circumstances, when on a 

2. The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of York ; 
and, as Vernon was not disposed to eat any dinner, he strolled 
along the road, till he came to a small church, pleasantly situ- 
ated, and entered the church-yard to read, as was his custow 
the inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, hr 
saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and entered into eoi?- 
versation with him. He found it was the sexton himself; 
and he drew from him several anecdotes of the persons in- 
terred around them. 


3. During tbcir conversation they had walked over the 
whole of the ground, when, just as they were going to leave 
the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck some weeds from a 
grave near the corner of it, and Vernon stopped also ; tak- 
ing hold, as he did so, of a small willow sapling, planted 
near the corner by itself. 

4. As the man rose from his occupation, and saw where 
Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and said, "I planted 
that willow ; and it is on a grave, thougl the grave is not 
marked out." 

" Indeed ! " 

" Yes ; it is the grave of a murderer." 
" Of a murderer ! " — echoed Vernon, iastinctively shud- 
dering, and moving away from it. 

5. "Yes," resumed he, "of a murderer who was hanged 
at York. Poor lad! — it was very right that he ohould be 
hanged ; but he was not a hardened villain I and he died so 
penitent ! and as I know him when he used to visit where I 
was groom, I could not help planting this tree for old ac- 
quaintance' sake." — Here he drew his hand across his eyes. 

6. " Then he was not a low-born man ? " 

" Oh ! no ; his father was a clergyman, I think." 
"Indeed! poor man: was he living at the time?" said 
Vernon, deeply sighing. 

" Oh ! yes ; for his poor son did fret so, lest his :*ather 
should ever knew what he had done: he said he was an 
angel upon earth; and he could not bear to think how he 
would grieve ; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his 
mother too, though he did so badly." 

7. " Is his mother living?" 

" No ; if she had, he would have been alive ; but his rvil 
courses broke her heart; and it was because the man he 
killed reproached him for having murdered his mother, ibst 
he was provoked to murder him." 

"Poor, rash, mistaken youth! then he had provocation?" 
" Oh ! yes ; the greatest : but he was very sorry for what 
he had done ; and it would have done your heart good t» 
hear him talk of his p>or father.' 


8. "I am glad I did not hear him/' said Vernon hastily^ 
and in a faltering voice, (for he thought of Edgar.) 

" And jct, sir, it would have done your heart good, too." 
^' Then he had virtuous feelings, and loved his father, 

amidst all his errors?" 

*' And I dare say his father loved him, in spite of his faults." 
*'I dare say he did," replied the man ; ''for one's children 

are our own flesh and hlood, you know, sir, after all that is 

said and done; and may he this young fellow was spoiled in 

the bringing up." 

9. *^ Perhaps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply. 

** However, this poor lad made a very good end." 

*< I am glad of thatl and he lies here," continued Vernon, 

gazing on the spot with deeper interest, and moving nearer 

to it as he spoke. " Peace be to his soul ! but was he not 

dissected ? " 

" Yes ; but his brothers got leave to have the body after 

dissection. They came to me, and we buried it privately at 


10. '* His brothers came ! and who were bis brothers ? " 
''Merchants, in London; and it was a sad cut on them; 

but they took care that their father should not know it." 
*' No I " cried Vernon, turning sick at heart. 
" Oh ! no ; they wrote him word that his son was ill j then 

went to Westmoreland, and — " 

" Tell me," interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and 

laying his hand on his arm, "tell me the name of this poor 

youth ! " 

11. "Why, he was tried under a false name, for the sake 
of his family ; but his real name was Edgar Vernon." 

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered violently and 
repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven, at the same time, 
with a look of mingled appeal and resignation. He then 
rushed to the obscure spot which covered the bones of his 
son, threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as 
if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while his head 
rested on the grass, and he neither spoke nor moved. Bui 
he uttered one groan ; — then all was stillness ! 


12. His terrified and astonished companion remained mo 
tionless for a few moments, — then stooped to raise him ; but 
the FIAT OF MERCY hud gone forth, and the paternal heart, 
broken by the sudden shock, had suffered, and breathed its 

last. MRS. OPIE. 


1 . The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a 
man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the human 
owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, mousing for ver- 
min, and never seeing noble game. 

2. The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes 
— openly bad, and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, 
and disinterestedness, are merely the (rppearance of good, but 
selfish at the bottom. He holds that no man does a good 
thing except for profit. The effect of his conversation upon 
your feelings is to chill and sear them ; to send you away 
sour and morose. 

3. His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon 
every lovely thing, like frost upon the flowers. If Mr. A is 
pronounced a religious man, he will reply: yes, on Sundays. 
Mr. B has joined the church: certainly; the elections are 
coming on. The minister of the gospel is called an example 
of diligence : it is his trade. Such a man is generous : of 
other mens money. This man is obliging : to lull suspicion 
and chrat you. That man is upright : because he is green. 

4. Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes 
in only the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a 
preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of opportunity, 
and undeniable purity, asceticism. The livelong day he will 
coolly sit with sneering lip, transfixing every character that 
is presented. 

5. It is impossible to indulge in such habitual severity of 
opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring the tendernes!» 
and delicacy of our own feelings. A man will be what hi» 
most cherished feelings are. If he encourage a noble gene- 
rosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bit- 
ter and envenomed thoughts, his own spirit will absorb th« 

Kinn --|;> 


poison, and he will crawl among men as a burnished adder, 
whose life is mischief, and whose errand is death. 

6. He who hunts for flowers, will find flowers; and he who 
loves weeds, may find weeds. Let it bo remembered that no 
man, who is not himself mortally diseased, will have a relish 
for disease in others. Kcject then the morbid ambition of 
the Cynic, or cease to call yourself a man. 



1. Stop! — for thy tread is on an empire's dust! 
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column, trophied for triumphal show? 
None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
As the ground was before, thus let it be. — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest growt 
And is this all the world has gained by thee. 

Thou first and last of fields ! king-making victory ? 

2. There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry: and bright 

The lamps shone o'er id> women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ; — 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 

3. Did ye not hear it ? — No ; — 'twas but the wind. 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : 

On with the dance I let joy be unconfined , 
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm ! arm ! it is ! — it is ! — the cannon's opening roar ! 

4. Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sate BrunsAvick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 


That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because ke deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting;^ fell I \ 

5. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? 

6. And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum ^ 

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering with white lips, " The foe ! they come, they come 1* 

7. And wild and high the " Cameron^s gathering" rosel 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 

Have heard — and heard too have her Saxon foes: — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring, which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
A"'? »■''•"•■•'' T» ''•'' ^— -:— : »^ -i-nsman's ears. 

\ ArMerincs •, <- tlioin her green leavea. 

I' with natui >p8, as they pass, 

(jrieving— if aught inanimate e'er grieves — 
Over the unreturning brave — alas I 
Kre evening to be trodden like the giiiss. 


Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In ita next verdure ; when this fiery mass 
or living valor, rolling t>u the foe, 
And burning with high hope,'^8hall moulder cold and low I 

9. Lost noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife ; 
The morn the marshaling in arms; t}-^ 1-t 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, avIicu rent. 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover — heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse — friend, foo— in one red burial blent ! 


1. — A TRUE LADY. 

" I CAN not forbear pointing out to you, my dearest child," 
said Lord Collingwood to his daughter, "the great advan. 
tages that will result from a temperate conduct and sweet- 
ness of manner to all people on all occasions. Never forget 
that you are a gentlewoman, and that all your words and 
actions should prove you gentle. I never heard your mother 
— your dear, good mother — say a harsh or hasty thing to any 
person in my life. Endeavor to imitate her. I am quick 
and hasty in my temper, but, my darling, it is a misfortune 
which, not having been suflSciently restrained in my youth, 
has caused me inexpressible pain. It has given me more 
trouble to subdue this impetuosity than anything I ever 


I. Mr. Audubon, in his valuable work on American Orni- 
chology, relates an anecdote illustrative of the deep impres- 
sions liable to be made on the mind from hearing the cooing 
of the Zenaida Dove, a pigeon which frequents the small 
islands in the Gulf of Florida. " The cooing of the Zenaida 
Dove," says he, '*is so peculiar, that one who hears it for the 
first time naturally stops to ask, 'What bird is that?' 


L' A man, who was once a pirate, assured me, that sev- 
eral times, while at certain wells, dug in the burning, shelly 
sands of a well-known island, the soft and melancholy cry 
of the doves awoke in his breast feelings which had long 
Blumbered, melted his heart to repentance, and caused him 
to linger at the spot in a state of mind, which he only, who 
compares the wretchedness of guilt within him with the hap- 
piness of former innocence, can truly feel. 

3. " He said he never left the place without increased 
fears of futurity, associated as he was, although I believe 
by force, with a band of the most desperate villains that 
ever annoyed the navigation of the Florida coast. So deeply 
moved was he by the notes of any bird, and especially those 
of a dove, the only soothing sounds he ever heard during his 
life of horrors, that, through those plaintive notes, and them 
alone, he was induced to escape from his vessel, abandon his 
turbulent companions, and return to a family deploring his 

4. "After paying a parting visit to those wells, and listen- 
ing once more to the cooings of the Zenaida Dove, he poured 
out his soul in supplications for mercy, and once more be- 
came what is said to be 'the noblest work of God,' an honest 
man. Ilis escape was effected amidst difficulties and dangers ; 
but no danger seemed to him to be compared with the dan- 
ger of one living in the violation of human and divine laws; 
»nd now he lives in peace, in the midst of his friends." 


It stole on its pinions of snow to the bed of disease ; and 
the sufferer's frown became a smile, the emblem of peace and 
endurance. It went to the house of mourning — and from the 
)i{)S of sorrow there came sweet and cheerful songs. It laid 
its head upon the arm of the poor man, which was stretched 
forth at the command of unholy impulses, and saved him 
from disgrace and ruin. It dwelt like a living thing in the 
bosom of the mother, whose son tarried long after the prom- 
ised time of his coming ; and saved her from desolation, and 
the "oare that killeth." Ii hovered about the head of the 


youth who had bccomo the Ishmael of society ; and led hiin 
on to works which even his enemies praised. It snatched 
the maiden from the jaws of death, and went with an old 
man to Heaven. 


1. TuE way was long, the wind was cold. 
The minstrel was infirm and old ; 

His withered cheek, and tresses gray. 
Seemed to have known a better day : 
The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
Was carried by an orphan boy: 
The last of all the bards was he, 
Who sung of Border chivalry. 
For, well-a-day I their date was fled. 
His tuneful brethren all were dead ; 
And he, neglected and oppressed, 
Wished to be with them, and at rest. 

2. No more on prancing palfrey borne, 
He caroled, light as lark at morn : 

No longer courted and caressed, 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest. 

Ho poured to lord, and lady gay, 

The unpremeditated lay : 

Old times were changed, old manners gone, 

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 

The bigots of the iron time. 

Had called his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering harper, scorned and poor. 

He begged his bread from door to door ; 

And tuned to please a peasant's ear, 

The harp a king had loved to hear. scorr 


Fee Light at home I how bright it beams 
When evening shades around us fall; 

And from the lattice far it gleams ; 
To love, and rest, and comfort call 


When tired mth the toils of day, 

The strife for glory, gold, or fame. 
How sweet to seek the quiet way. 

Where loving lips will lisp our name, 

Around the Light at Homo. 

9 When through the dark and stormy night, 
The wayward wanderer homeward hies ; 
Uow cheering is that twinkling light, 

Which through the forest gloom he spies ! 
It is the light at home, he feels 

That loving hearts will greet him there. 
And softly through his bosom steals, 
That joy and love which banish care. 

Around the Light at Uome. 

8. The Light at Home, whene'er at last, 

It greets the seaman through the storm. 
He feels no more the chilling blast 
That beats upon his manly form. 
Long years upon the sea have fled, 

Since Mary gave the parting kiss, 
But the sad tears which then she shed. 
Will now be paid with rapturous bliss. 
Around the Light at Home 

4. The Light at Home 1 how still and sweet 
It peeps from yonder cottage door — 
The weary laborer to greet — 

When the rough toils of day are o'er. 
Sad is the soul that does not know 

The blessings that its beams impart, 
The cheerful hopes and joys that flow. 
And lighten up the heaviest heart, 

Around the Light at Home. 


Who is the happy warrior? who is he, 
That every man in arms would wish to be? 
'T is he who fixes good on good, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows — 
Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means, and there will Bland 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And. in himself possess his own deeire— 


Who therefore does not stoop or lie in wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state — 
Whom they intuit follow — on wliose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all — 
Who, while the mortal miut is gathering, draws 
His hreath in confidence of heaven's applause- 
Thi9 is the happy warrior — this is he. 
Whom erery man in arms should wi>l 


1. It was under the burning influence of revenge that the 
wife of Macgregor commanded that the hostage, exchanged 
for her husband's safety, should be brought into her presence. 
I believe her sons had kept this unfortunate wretch out of 
her sight, for fear of the consequences ; but if it was so, their 
humane precaution only postponed his fate. They dragged 
forward, at her summons, a wretch, already half dead with 
terror, in whose agonized features, I recognized, to my hor- 
ror and astonishment, my old acquaintance Morris. 

2. He fell prostrate before the female chief with an effort 
to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch 
had been pollution, so that all he could do in token of the 
extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss the hem of her 
plaid. I never heard entreaties for life poured forth with 
such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such, that, 
instead of paralyzing his tongue, as on ordinary occasions, it 
even rendered him eloquent ; and, with checks as pale as 
ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes that seemed to be 
taking their last look of all mortal objects, he protested, with 
the deepest oaths, his total ignorance of any design on the 
life of Rob Roy, whom he swore he loved and honored as his 
own soul. In the inconsistency of his terror, he said, he was 
but. the agent of others, and he muttered the name of Rash- 
leigh. — He prayed but for life — for life he would give all he 
had in the world; — it was but life he asked — life, if it were 
to be prolonged under tortures and privations; — he asked 
only breath, though it should be drawn in the damps of the 
lowest caverns of their hills. 

3. It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and 


contempt, with which the wife of Macgregor regard* d thii 
wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence. " I 
could have bid you live," she said, " had life been to you 
the same weary and wasting burden that it is to me — that it 
is to every noble and generous mind. — But you — wretch I 
you could creep through the world unaffected by ita various 
disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its constantly accumulating 
masses of crime and sorrow. — you could live and enjoy your- 
self, while the noble-minded are betrayed, — while nameless 
and birthless villains tread on the neck of the brave and long 
descended, — you could enjoy yourself, like a butcher's dog 
in the shambles, battening on garbage, while the slaughter of 
the brave went on around you ! This enjoyment you shall 
not live to partake; you shall die, base dog, and that before 
yon cloud has passed over the sun." 

4. She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, 
two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hur- 
ried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. 
He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries that fear 
ever uttered — I may well term them dreadful ; for they 
haunted my sleep for years afterward. As the murderers, 
or executioners, call them as you will, dragged him along, 
he recognized me, even in that moment of honor, and ex- 
claimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, 
" 0, Mr. Osbaldistone, save me 1 — save me ! " 

5. I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, 
although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did 
attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been ex- 
pected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The victim 
was held fast by some, while others, binding a large, heavy 
stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again 
eagerly stripped him of some part of his dress. Half naked, 
and thus manacled, they hurried him into the lake, there, 
about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death-shriek with 
A loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, however, the 
yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. 

G. The heavy burden splashed in the dark -blue waters of 
the lake ; and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and 
ewords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, extricating 

KlDD.— 11 


felf from the load to which he was attached, he might have 
struggled to* regain the shore. But the knot had heen se- 
curely bound ; the victim sunk without effort ; the waters, 
which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him ; and 
the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, 
wa.4 forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. 



1. Thb cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, 
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean ; 
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, 
As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child : 

A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim : 
It was a collier's wife and child, they veiled him little Jim. 

2. And oh I to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, 
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak. 
Lest she might waken one she loved fur better than her life; 
For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife. 
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed. 
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead 

3. She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words from him 
** Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim. 

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but ! I am so dry. 
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry." 
With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip ; 
He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip. 

4. " Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him 
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas ! poor little Jim I 
She knew that he was dying ; that the child she loved so dear. 
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear: 

The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, 
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. 

5. He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead. 
He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed ; 
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd lain conceal. 
And see, his wife has joined him — the stricken couple kneel: 
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him, 
In heaven once more to meet again their own poor Utile Jim. 



1. The shadows of evening are thickening. Twilight 
iloses, and the thin mists are rising in the valley. The 
last charging squadron yet thunders in the distance ; but 
it presses only on the foiled and scattered foe. For this 
day the 6ght is over 1 And those who rode foremost in its 
field at morning — where are they now ? On the bank of 
)on little stream, there lies a knight, his life-blood is ebbing 
taster than its tide. II is shield is rent, and his lance is bro- 
ken. Soldier, why faintest thou? The blood that swells 
from that deep wound will answer. 

2. It was this morning that the sun rose bright upon his 
hopes— it sets upon his grave. This day he led the foremost 
rank of spears, that in their long row leveled when they had 
crossed their foe's dark line — then death shouted in the on- 
set 1 It was the last blow that reached him. He has con- 
quered, though he shall not triumph in the victory. His 
breastplate is dinted. His helmet has the traces of well- 
dealt blows. The scarf on his breast — she would shrink 
but to touch it now who placed it there. Soldier, what 
will thy mistress say ? She will say that the knight died 

3. Aye, rouse thee, for the fight yet charges in the dis- 
tance ! Thy friends are shouting — thy pennon floats on 
high. Look on yon crimsoned field that seems to mock the 
purple clouds above it ! prostrate they lie, drenched in their 
dark red pool ; thy friends and enemies ; the dead and dy- 
ing ! The veteran, with the stripling of a day. The name- 
less trooper, and the leader of a hundred hosts. Friend lies 
by friend. The steed with his rider. And foes, linked in 
their long embrace — their first and last — the gripe of death. 
Far o'er the field they lie, a gorgeous prey to ruin ! White 
plume and steel morion ; saber and yataghan ; crescent and 
cross ; rich vest and bright corslet ; we came to the fight, as 
we had come to a feasting; glorious and irlittering, even in 
death, each shining warrior lies! 

4. His last glance still seeks that i misiian banner! The 
cry that shall never be repeated, cheers on its last charge. 
Oh. but for 3tren;'th to reach the field once more ! tt) die Id 

124 ELOCUTloJ. 

the foe's front I Peace, dreamer/ Thou habt done well 
Thy place in the close rank is filled ; and yet anothc r waits 
for his who holds if. 

5. Knight, hast thou yet a thought? bend it on Heaven 1 
The past is gone; the future lies before thee. Gaze on yon 
gorgeous sky; thy home should bo beyond it! Life, honor, 
love — they pass to Him that gave them. Pride, that came 
00 like ocean's billows — see round thcc how it lies mute and 
passive. The wealthy here are poor. The high-born have 
no precedence. The strong are powerless; the mean, con- 
tent. The fair and lovely have no followers. Soldier ! she 
who sped thee on thy course to-day, her blue eyes shall seek 
thee in the conquering ranks to-morrow; but it shall seek 
thee in vain ! Well I thus it is thou shouldst have died ! — 
worth all to live for. Wouldst thou be. base to have thy 
death a blessing? Proud necks shall mourn for thee. 
Bright eyes shall weep for thee. They that live envy thee. 
Death ! glory takes out thy sting I 

6. Warrior ! aye, the stream of that rill flows cool ; but 
thy lip no more shall taste it. The moonlight that silvers 
its white foam, shall glitter on thy corslet, when thy eye is 
closed and dim. Lo ! now the night is coming. The mist 
is gathering on the hill. The fox steals forth to seek his 
quarry, and the gray owl sweeps whirling by, rejoicing in 
the stillness. Oh, soldier! how sweetly sounds thy lady's 
lute! how fragrant are the dew-sprinkled flowers that twine 
round the casement from which she leans ! that lute shall 
enchant thee, those flowers shall delight thee — no more ! 

7. One other charge ! Soldier, it may not be. To thy 
saint and thy lady commend thee ! Hark to the low trum- 
pet that sounds the recall ! Hark to its long note ; sweet is 
that sound in the ears of the spent and routed foe 1 The 
victor hears it not. When the breath rose that blew that 
note, he lived ; its peal has rung, and his spirit has departed. 
Heath! thou shouldst be the soldier's pillow! Moon, let thy 
cold light this night fall upon him! But, morning, thy soft 
dews shall tempt him not ! the soldier must wake no more. 
He sleeps the sleep of honor. His cause was his country's 
freedom, and her faith. He is dead ! The cross of a Chris- 


tian knight is on his hrcast; his lips are pressed to his lady'g 
(okon. Soldier, farewell I 


1. A BENEVOLENT man was Absalom Bess, — 
At each and every tale of distress 

He blazed right up like a rocket; 
He felt for all who 'neath poverty's smart 
Were doomed to bear life's roughest part, — 
lie felt for them in his inmost heart, 

But never felt in his pocket. 

2. He did n't know rightly what was meant 

By the Bible's promised four hundred per cent., 

For charity's donation ; 
But he acted as if he thought railroad stocks. 
And bonds secure beneath earthly locks, 
Were better, with pockets brim full of rocks, 

Than heavenly speculation. 

3. Yet all said he was an excellent man ; 

For the poor he'd preach, for the poor he'd plan,— 

To better them he was willing; 
But the oldest one who had heard him pray. 
And preach for the poor in a pitiful way, 
Could n't remember, exactly, to say 

Ho had ever given a shilling. 

4. 0, an excellent man was Absalom Bess, 
And the world threw up its hands to bless, 

Whenever his name was mentioned ; 
But he died one day, he did, and 1 
lie went right down to the shades below, 
Where all are bound, I fear, to go. 

Who are only good intentioned. 


2. — FAMINE. 

0, the long and dreary winter! 
0, the cold and cruel winter I 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, 
Fro/.(! n lake and river 


Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, 
Fell the god sdow o'er the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

2. Ilardly from his buried wigwam 
Could tiie hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes, 
Vainly walked he through the forest. 
Sought for beast or bird and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
In the snow beheld no foot-prints. 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 
Perished there from oold and hunger. 

3 0, the famine and the fever! 
0, the wasting of the famine I 
0, the blasting of the fever I 
0, the wailing of the children 1 
0, the anguish of the women I 
All the earth wjis sick and famished. 
Hungry was the air around them. 
Hungry was the sky above them. 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them. 



A CLERGYMAN, preaching a sermon on some particular pa- 
triarch, was extremely high in his panegyric, and spoke of 
him as far excelling every saint in the calendar. He took a 
view of the celestial hierarchy, but in vain ; he could not 
assign to his saint a place worthy so many virtues as he pos- 
sessed ; every sentence ended thus : " Where, then, can we 
place this great patriarch?" One of the congregation, tired 
at last of the repetition, exclaimed, "As I am going away, 
you may put him in my pew." 



1. A VERY intelligent Irishman tells the following inci- 
dent of his experience in America: I came to this country 
several years ago, and, as soon as I arrived, hired out to a 
gentleman who farmed a few acres. He showed me over the 
premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, oats, 
etc., were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. Aftei 
Fupper, he said to me: "James, you may feed the cow, and 
give her corn in the ear^ I went out and walked about, 
thinking, "what could he mean? Had I understood him?" 
1 scratched my head, then resolved I would inquire again ; 
so I went into the library where my master was writing very 
busily, and he answered without looking up : "I thought I 
told you to give the cow some corn in the ear.'' 

2. I went out more puzzled than ever. What sort of an 
animal must this Yankee cow be? I examined her mouth 
and ears. The teeth were good, and the ears like those of 
kine in the old country. Dripping with sweat, I entered my 
master's presence once more. " Please, sir, you bid me give 
the cow some corn in the ear, but did n't you mean the 
mouthf He looked at me a moment, and then burst into 
such a convulsion of laughter, that I made for the stable a8 
fast as my feet could take me, thinking I was in the service 
of a crazy man. 


1 . 'It amazes me that ministers do n't write better sermons ; 
'I am sick of the dull, prosy affairs," said a lady in the pres- 
ence of Dr. Nesbit. " But it is no easy m'atter, my good 
woman, to write good sermons," suggested the Doctor. 
'' Yes," rejoined the lady, " but 'you are so long about it. 
I cjuld write one in half the time if I only had the text." 
'•0, if a text is all you want," said Dr. Nesbit, "I will fur- 
• ish that. Take this one from Solomon: 'It is better to 
dwell in a corner of a house top, than in a wide house with 
a brawling woman.'" "Do you mean wic, sir?" inquired 
the lady quickly. " 0, my good woman," was the response, 
"you will never make a sermonizer ; you are too quick in 
making your application." 



1 BucKLANi), the distinguished geologist, one day, after 
dissecting a Mississippi alligator, asked a good many uf the 
most distinguished of his class to dine with him. His guests 
congregated. The dinner-table looked splendid, with glass, 
china, and plate, and the meal commenced with excellent 
loup. "How do you like the soup?" asked the doctor, after 
having finished his own plate, addressing a famous gour- 
mand of the day. "Very good, indeed," answered the other; 
" turtle, is it not — I only ask because I find no green fat?" 
The doctor shook his head. " I think it has something of a 
musky taste," said another, "not unpleasant, but peculiar." 

2. "All alligators have," replied Buckland, "the cayman 
particularly so. The fellow whom I dissected this morning, 

and whom you have just been eating " There was a 

general rout of the whole guests. Every one turned pale. 
Half-a-dozen started up from the table. Two or three ran 
out of the room ; and only two, who had stout stomachs, re- 
mained till the close of an excellent entertainment. " See 
what imagination can do ! " said Buckland. " If I had told 
them it was turtle, or terrapin, or birds'-nest soup, they 
would have pronounced it excellent. Such is prejudice." 
" But was it really an alligator ? " asked a lady. " As good 
a cairs head as ever wore a coronet," answered Buckland 



I. The street was a ruin, and night's horrid glare 
Illumined vrith terror the face of despair, 

AVhile houseless, bewailing, 

Mute pity assailing, 
A mother's wild shrieks pierced the merciless air 
Beside her stood Edward, imploring each wind 
To wake his loved sister, who lingered behind. 

Awake, my poor Mary ! 

Oh! fly to me, Mary! 
In ihe arms of your Edward a pillow vou'll find. 


2. In vain he called, for now the volumed smoke, 
Cracklinor between the rafters, broke ; 
Through the rent seams the forked flames aspire, 
All, all is lost — the roofs on fire! the roofs on fire I 

A flash from the window brought Mai-y to view. 
She screamed as around her the flames fiercely blew, 

Where art thou, mother I 

Oh ! fly to me, brother 1 
Ah 1 save your poor ^lary, who lives but for you • 

Leave not poor RIary ! 

Ah! save your poor Mary! 

3. Her visioned form descrying, 
On wings of horror flying, 

The youth directs his frantic gaze, 
Then plunges in the maddening blaze I 
Aloft he dauntless soars, 
The flaming room explores ; 
The roof in cinders crushes, 
Through tumbling walls he rushes I 
She's safe from fear's alarms: 
She faints in Edward's arms I 
0! nature, such thy triumphs are. 
Thy simplest child can bravely dare. 

2. — ENVY. 

Every thing contains within itself 
The seeds and sources of its own corruption ; 
The cankering rust corrodes the brightest steel : 
The moth frets out your garment, and the worm 
Eats its slow way into the solid oak : 
But envy, of all evil things the worst. 
The same to-day, to-morrow, and forever, 
Saps and consumes the heart in which it works. 


I. Toe scene was more beautiful far to my oye. 

Than if day in its pride had arniyed it: 
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky 

looked pure as the spirit that made it : 
The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 

On the shadowy waves' playful motion, 
From the dim distant hill, WW the light-house fire blosoJ 

Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 


2. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 

Wa« heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 
The KCu-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, 

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : 
One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, 

All bushed was the billows' commotion, 
And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope. 

That star of life's tremulous ocean. 

3. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, 
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 

That blaied on the breast of the billow : 
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies. 

And death stills the heart's last emotion ; 
0, then may the seraph of mercy arise, 

Like a star on eternity's ocean 1 moori. 


1. "Do you entertain any ill-will toward the prisoner?" 
asked Therese's counsel of the attendant. 

" None," said the witness. 

'' Have you ever quarreled with her ? " 

" No." 

2. "Do you truly believe that she deposited the jewel in 
her trunk? 

" I do not like to think ill of any one." 

"That is not an answer to my question : — do you believe 
that she put it there?" 

" How else could it have come there ?" 

" Answer me, Yes or No," said the advocate. " Do you 
believe that Therese secreted the jewel in her trunk? Yes 

" Yes ! " at last faltered out the attendant. 

3. "Now, my girl," continued the advocate, "pay heed to 
what you say ; remember you are upon your oath ! Wi:l 
you swear that you did not put it there yourself?" There 
was a pause and a profound silence. After about a minute 
had elapsed, "Well," said the advocate. Another pause; 
while, in an assembly where hundreds of human hearts 


were throbbing, not an individual stirred, or even appeared 
to breathe, such was the pitch of intensity to which the su«- 
penso of the court was wound up. 

4. "Well," said the advocate, a second time; will you 
answer me? Will you swear, that you yourself did not 
put the jewel into Therese's trunk ? " 

"I will I " at last said the attendant, boldly. 
" You swear it?" 
"I do." 

»* And why did you not answer mo at once ? " 
*' I do not like such questions to be put to me," replied 
the attendant. 

5. For a moment the advocate was silent. A feeling of 
disappointment seemed to pervade the whole court; now and 
then a half-suppressed sigh was heard, and here and there a 
handkerchief was lifted to an eye, which was no sooner 
wiped than it was turned again upon Thercse with an ex- 
pression of the most lively commiseration. The maid her- 
self was the only individual who appeared perfectly at her 
)ase; even the baroness looked as if her firmness was on the 
point of giving way, as she drew closer to Therese, round 
whose waist she now had passed her arm. 

6. " You have done with the witness ? " said the advocate 
for the prosecution. 

"No," replied the oth^r, and reflected for a moment or 
two longer. At length, "Have you any keys of your own?" 
said he. 

" I have ! " 
' " I know you have," said the advocate. " Are they about 


" Is not one of them broken ? " 

After a pause, " Yes." 

7. " Show them to me." 

The witness, after searching some time in her pocket, took 
the keys out and presented them. 

" Let the trunk be brought into the court, said the advo* 

8. " Now, my u;irl, ' resumed the advocate, "attend to the 


questions which I am going to put to yon, and deliberate 
well before you reply ; because I have those to produce who 
will answer them truly, should you fail to do so. Were you 
ever in the service of a Monsieur St. Ange ? " 

" Yes," replied the attendant, evidently disconcerted. 

"Did you not open, in that gentleman's house, a trunk 
that was not your own?" 

" Yes," with increased confusion. 

" Did you not take from that trunk an article that was not 
your own?" 

"Yes ; but I put it back again." 

" I know you put it back again," said the advocate. " You 
see, my girl, I am acquainted with the whole affair; but, be- 
fore you put it back again, were you not aware that you 
were observed ? " 

The witness was silent 

9. "Who observed you? Was it not your mistress ? Did 
she not accuse you of intended theft? Were you not in- 
stantly discharged?" successively asked the advocate, with- 
out eliciting any reply. "Why do you not answer, girl?" 
peremptorily demanded he. 

"If you are determined to destroy my character," said the 
witness, bursting into tears, " I can not help it." 

"No," rejoined the advocate ; " I do not intend to destroy 
a character; I mean to save one, — one which, before you 
quit the court, I shall prove to be as free from soil as the 
snow of the arm which is leaning upon that bar !" continued 
the advocate, pointing towards Therese. 

10. The trunk was here brought in. " You know that 


"Whose is it?" 
" It belongs to the prisoner." 
"And these are your keys?" 

"Were these keys out of your possession the day before 
that trunk was searched, and the jewel found in it?" 
" No." 
" Nor the day before that ? " 


•■ Nm  

11. Now mind what you arc saying. You swear, tliat, for 
two days preceding the morning upon which that trunk was 
"earchcd, those keys were nev«r once out of your own pos- 
session ?" 

" I do." 

"Will not one of these keys open that trunk?" 

The witness was silent. 

"Never mind ! we shall try. As readily as if it had been 
made for it!" resumed the advocate, applying the key and 
lifting the lid. 

12. '* There may be fifty keys in the court that would do 
the same thing," interposed the public prosecutor. 

" True," rejoined his brother ; " but this is not one of 
them," added he, holding up the other key, " for she tried 
this key first and broke, as you see, the ward in the at- 

" How will you prove that?" inquired the prosecutor. 

" By producing the separate part." 

"Where did you find it?" 

" In the lock ! " emphatically exclaimed the advocate. 

A groan was heard; the witness had fainted. She was in- 
stantly removed, and the innocence of Therese was as clear 
as the noonday I knowles. 


1 ^^ iiEN the humid showers gather over all the starry spheres, 
And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 

Tia a joy to press the pillow of a cottage chamber bed, 
And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead. 

2 Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart. 
And thousand dreary fancies into busy being start; 

And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, 
As 1 listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof. 

3. There in fancy comes my mother, as she used to years agcne, 
Tm survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn 


1 can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain 
Which is pUjed upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. 

4. Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving; I Jr 
And her bright-eyed, cherub brother — a serene, angelic pair- - 
Glide an.)und my wakeful pillow with their praise or mild repixxif, 
As 1 listen to the murmur of the sod rain on the roof. 

5. And another comes to thrill me with htY eyes' delicious blue. 
I forget, as gaxing on her, that her heart was all untrue ; 

I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again. 

And my heart's quick pulses yibrate to the patter of the rain. 

6. There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, 
[n the spirit's pure, deep fountains, whence the holy poJiHions swell, 
As that melody of nature — that subdued, subduing strain. 
Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain I 


1. At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars. 

And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose. 
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars ; 

For yet they strove, although of no great use. 
There was no light in heaven but a few stars : 

The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their crews: 
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 
And going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

2. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ; 

Then shrieked the timid, and stood 3tiU the brave; 
Then some leaped overboard, with dreadful yell, 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawned around her like a bell ; 

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave. 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

3. And first a universal shriek there rushed. 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hushed. 

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
Of billows ; but at intervals there gushed. 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek: the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. btron. 



1. Sidney Smith, when traveling in a stage-coach one 
day, long before railroads were dreamed of, was terribly an- 
noyed by a young man who had acquired the polite habit of 
Bwearing to such an extent, that he interlarded his discourse 
with it, as though it were a constituent part of the language. 
As there was a lady present, the matter was doubly annoy- 
ing. After enduring the young man's displays for some 
time, the " wag, wit, and wicar," as one of his cockney ad- 
mirers called him, asked permission to tell the company a 
little anecdote, and thus commenced : 

2. "Once upon a time — boots, sugar-tongs and tinder- 
boxes — there was a king of — boots, sugar-tongs, and tinder- 
boxes — England who, at a great ball, — boots, sugar-tongs, 
and tinder-boxes — picked up the Duchess of — boots, sugar- 
tongs and tinder-boxes — Shrewsbury's garter — boots, sugar- 
tongs and tinder-boxes — and said, ^ Honi soil qui mal y — 
boots, sugar-tongs and tinder-boxes — peiise,' which means in 
English, 'Evil to him who — boots, sugar-tongs and tinder- 
boxes — evil thinks.' This was the origin of — boots, sugar- 
tongs and tinder-boxes — the order of the garter." 

3. When Sidney Smith had concluded, the young gentle- 
man said, "a very good story, sir; but what has boots, 
sugar-tongs, and tinder-boxes to do with it?" "I will tell 
you, my young friend," said Smith, "when you tell mo 
what blasphemy has lo do with your conversation. In the 
meantime all ' r • ' " "^^ * • * •• -*-•' *' — f nrin^." 


1. TuERE is a point beyond which human forbearance can 
not go, and the most even of tempers will become roused at 
timeb. At an assizes held during the past year, both judge 
and counsel had a deal of trouble to make a timid witness 
speak sufficiently loud to be heard by the jury; and it is 
possible that the temper of the counsel may thereby have 
been turned from the even tenor of its way. After this gen 
tlcmnn had ^j-'wio thron^rh the -r' ■?• ' -,  r •" '-t- plead 


ing, and had coaxed, threatened, and even bullied- witnesseb, 
there was called into the box a young ostler, who appeared 
to be simplicity personified. 

LV ''Now, sir/' said the counsel, in a tone that would dt 
any other time have been denounced as vulgarly loud, " I 
hope we shall haVe no difficulty in making you speak out." 

" I hope not, zur," was shouted, or rather bellowed out by 
the witness, in tones which almost shook the building, and 
would certainly have alarmed any timid or nervous lady. 

"How dare you speak in that way, sir?" said the counsel. 

3. "Please, zur, 1 can't speak any louder," said the aston- 
ished witness, attempting to speak louder than before,, evi- 
dently thinking the fault to be in his speaking too softly. 

"Pray, have you been drinking?" shouted the counsel, 
who had now thoroughly lost the last remnant of his temper. 
" Yes, Eur," was the reply. 
"And what have you been drinking?" 
"Corfee, zur I " 

4. "And what did you have in your coffee, sir?" shouted 
the exasperated counsel. 

^*A spunc, zur!'* innocently bawled the witness, in his 
highest key, amidst the roars of the whole court — except- 
ing only the now thoroughly wild counsel, who flung down 
his brief, and rushed out of court. 


1. Some eighty years ago a very zealous professor of 
religion went to Dr. Gill, and told him she had something 
against him, and she considered it her duty to reprove him. 

2. "Well, my good lady," said he, "what is the difficulty." 
" Why, sir, I think your bands are too long." 

"Ahl do you? I have never thought any thing about 
it; 1 will get a pair of scissors, and I will thank you to cut 
off as much as you think best." 

She replied, " I hope you will not be offended." 

"Not at Jill, not at all, madam," he replied. 

i. Without much ceremony she folded and cut off quite 
ft large piece of the bands. 

"Are you now satisfied? look again and see; perhaps 


you had better cut off a little more while you are about it, 
and be satisfied." 

"I do not know but I had ; I think they are still rather 
long;" and she cut off a second piece, saying, "there, I 
think, that will do." 

4. "Well, my friend," said the Doctor, "I must now tell 
yuu I have something against you." 

" Have you, sir," she exclaimed, "what is it?" 

"I think your tongue is rather too long, and you had bet- 
ter let me cut a piece off." 


1. Go feel what I have felt — 

Go bear what I have borne — 
Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt. 

And the cold world's proud scorn: 
Then suffer on from year to year — 
Thy sole relief the scorching tear. 

2. Go kneel as I have knelt, 

Implore, beseech, and pray — 
Strive the besotted heart to melt, 

The downward course to stay — 
Be dashed with bitter curse aside, 
Your prayers burlesqued, your tears defied. 

3. Go weep as I have wept 

O'er a loved father's fall- 
See every promised blessing swept — 

Youth's sweetness turned to gall — 
Life's fading flowers strewed all the way. 
That brought me up to woman's day. 

4. Go see what I have seen — 

Behold the strong man bow. 
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in bl)od. 

And cold and livid brow — 
Go catch his withering glance, and see 
There mirrored, his soul's misery. 

6. Go to thy rootber'a side, 

And her crushed bosom cheer— 

KiDD.— 12 


Till I ; -ep anguish bide — 

^^ ijic Irum her cheek the bitter tear; 
Mark her wan cheek and pallid brow — 
The gray that streaks her dark hair now— 
Her failing frame and trembling limb ; 
And trace the ruin back to him 
Whose blighted faith, in early youth, 
Promised eternal love and truth, 
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
That promise to the cursed cup; 
And led her down, through love and light, 
And all that made her prospects bright ; 
And chained her there, mid want and strife^ 
That lowly thing, a drunkard's wife; 
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild, 
That withering blight, a drunkard's child I 

6. Go hear, and feel, and see, and know, 
All that my $oul hath felt and known ; 

Then look upon the wine-cup's glow — 
See if its beauty can atone — 

Think if its flavor you will try! 

When all proclaim 'tis drink and die! 

7 Tell me I hate the bowl— 

Hate is a feeble word : 
I loathe — abhor — my very soul 

With strong disgust is stirred— 
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell. 
Of the dark beverage of hell- 


1 . The following account of the parts of the steam-engine 
18 intended, without entering into minute practical details, 
still fully to explain the principle or general nature of the 
machine It should serve to render very interesting to an 
attentive reader, a visit to any place where a steam-engine 
is in use ; and it should make evident the folly of many of 
the modern schemes for improving the engine. 

2. The part which first claims attention, is the great barrel, 
constituting the center or main portion of the machine, in 


which <he piston is moved up and down by the action of 
steam entering, alternately above and below it, through thf 
pipes. The barrel, or cylinder, is bored with extreme ac- 
curacy, and the piston is padded round its edge with hemp 
or other soft material, so as to be perfectly air or steam-tight. 
Lately, pistons have been made altogether of metal, and, in 
some cases, from working with less friction, these answci 
even better than others. 

3. The next part to be mentioned is the boiler, which is 
made of suitable size and strength. The steam passes from 
the boiler along the pipe, and there, by any suitable cock- 
er valves, worked by the engine itself, is directed alternately 
to the upper and under part of the barrel; and while it is 
entering to press on one side of the piston, the waste steam 
is allowed to escape from the other side, either to the at- 
mosphere, for high-pressure engines, or into the condenser, 
for th?>se of low-pressure — the condenser being always kept 
at a low temperature by cold water running into it, and 
pumped out again by the piston. 

4. The supply of steam from the boiler to the cylinder is 
regulated by a valve placed somewhere in the pipe, and 
made obedient to what is called the governor, which may, in 
truth, be described as a pair of tongs with heavy balls at the 
ends, to make their opening more energetic, and attached to 
some turning part of the machine. If the engine move with 
more than the assigned speed, the balls open or fly asunder 
beyond their middle station, and, by a simple contrivance, 
are then made to act on a valve which contracts the steam - 
tube ; on tlic contrary, with too slow a motion, they collapse, 
and open the valve. The supply of water to the boiler is 
regulated by a float on the surface of the water in the 
boiler; which float, on descending to a certain point, by 
reason of the consumption of water, opens a valve to ad- 
mit more. There is a safety valve in the boiler, viz., a well 
fitted flap or stopper, held against an opening by a'weight, 
but loaded so as to open before danger can arise from the 
overheating of the water. 

5. The rapidity of the combustion, or force of the flre, is 
exactly regulated of the boiler wanti 


of the machine, thus: there is a large open tube rising 
'^-om near the bottom of the boiler, through its top, to a 
hight of several feet; and when the water in the boiler is 
too hot, and the steam, therefore, too strong, part of the 
water is pressed up into this tube, and, by the agency of a 
float which rests on its surface, it shuts the chimney-valve, 
or damper; the draught is then diminished, and the fuel 
saved, until a brisker fire is again required. 

G. The great beam, turning on an axis, transmits the force 
of the piston to the remote machinery. When the object 
is to raise water, the pump-rods are simply connected with 
the end of the beam; but when any rotary motion is 
wanted, the end is made to turn a crank by the rod; and 
uniformity of motion is obtained by the influence of the 
great fly-wheel fixed to the axis of the crank. 

7. The fertile genius of James Watt did not stop at the 
accomplishment of the important particulars described above; 
but throughout the whole detail of the component parts, and 
of the various applications of the engine, he contrived mi- 
racles of simplicity and usefulness. We sliould exceed the 
prescribed bounds of this article, by entering more minutely 
into the subject; but we may remark, that, in the present 
perfect state of the engine, it appears a thing almost en- 
dowed with intelligence. 

8. It regulates with perfect accuracy and uniformity the 
number of its strokes in a given time, counting or record- 
ing them moreover, to tell how much work it has done, as 
a clock records the beats of its pendulum ; it regulates the 
quantity of steam admitted to work ; the briskness of the 
fire; the supply of water to the boiler; the supply of coals 
to the fire ; it opens and shuts its valves with absolute pre- 
cision as to time and manner; it oils its joints; it tak©? 
out any air which may accidentally enter into parts whicli 
should be vacuous ; and when any thing goes wrong which 
it can not of itself rectify, it warns its attendants by ring- 
ing a bell : yet, with all these talents and qualities, and 
even when exerting the force of hundreds of horses, it ia 
obedient to the hand of a child. 

9. Its aliment is coal, wood, charcoal, or other combust] 


bles; it consumes none while idle ; it never tires, and wants 
no sleep; it is not subject to malady when originally well 
made; and only refuses to work when worn out with age: 
it is equally active in all climates, and will do work of any 
kind ; it is a water pumper, a miner, a sailor, a cotton- 
spinner, a weaver, a blacksmith, a miller, etc.: and a small 
engine in the character of a steam-pony, may be seen 
dragging after it on a railroad a hundred tuns of merchan- 
dise, or a regiment of soldiers, with thrice the speed of our 
fleetest horse-coaches. It is the king of machines, and a 
permanent realization of the Genii of Eastern fable, sub- 
mitting supernatural powers to the command of man. 



1. WnoM do we dub as gentlemen? The knave, the fool, the 

brute — 
If they but own full tithe of gold and wear a courtly suit ! 
The parchment scroll of titled line, the ribbon at the knee, 
Can still suflSce to ratify and grant such high degree : 
But nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born. 
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn ; 
She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine. 
And cries exulting, " Who can make a gentleman like mine ?" 

2. She may not spend her common skill about the outward part, 
But showers beauty, grace, and light, upon the mind and heart. 
She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illume — 
The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom. 
Should fortune pour her welcome store, and useful gold abound, 
lie shares it with a bounteous hand and scatters blessings round. 
The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end dcvsigued. 
When held by nature's gentleman, the good, the just, the kind. 

3. He turns not fror- ♦'•> ■J."«,i...;s home, wht»"> -Tr -w's offspring! 

dwell ; 
He'll greet the peuMUiL m m^s nut — the culj.iii iu mn cell; 
lie stays to hear the widow's plaint of deep and mourning love, 
lie seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above ; 
The orphan child, the friendless one, the luckless, or the poor, 
Will never njcct his spurning frown, or leave his bolted door; 
His kindrod circle 's all mankind, his cfuntry, all the globe — 
An hum- It is jeweled star, and truth, his ermine robe. 


4. lie wisely yields his passions up to reason's firm control — 
His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul. 
lie may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life, 
But will not love the revel scene, nor heed the brawling strife. 
He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honeyed tongue! 
He's social with the gray-haired one and merry with the young; 
He gravely shares the council speech or joins the rustic game. 
And shines as nature's gentleman, in every place the same. 

5. No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pomj»ous tone his word, 
No studied attitude is seen, no palling nonsense heard ; 

He'll suit his bearing to the hour — laugh, listen, learn, or teach, 
With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candor in his speech. 
He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed ; 
He would not blame another's faith nor have one martyr bleed ; 
Justice and mercy form his code ; he puts his trust in Heaven ; 
His prayer is, " If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven 1'' 

6. Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems 

there are. 
Each shining in his hallowed sphere as virtue's polar star. 
Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and 

Yet, yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark; 
There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or pride. 
Great in the calm but greater still when dashed by adverse tide, — 
They hold the rank no king can give, no station can disgrace, 
Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place. 



1. The state of the atmosphere, as to weight, differs at 
different times in the same situation, so as to produce a 
change of about three inches in the hight of the mercurial 
barometer ; that is to say, from twenty-eight to thirty-one 
inches. On the occasion of the great Lisbon earthquake, 
however, the mercury fell so far in the barometers, even in 
Britain, as to disappear from that portion at the top usually 
!eft uncovered for observation. 

2. The uncovered part of a barometer is commonly five 
or six inches in length, with a divided scale attached to it 


on which the figures, 28, 29, etc., indicate the number of 
inches from the surface of the mercury, at the bottom, to 
the respective divisions : — on the lower part of the scale, 
the words wind and rain are generally written; meaning, 
that when the mercury sinks to them, wind and rain are 
to be expected ; and on the upper part dry and fine appear, 
for a corresponding reason : but we have to recollect, thai 
it is not the absolute hight of the mercury which indicates 
the existing or coming weather, but the recent change in 
its hight — a falling barometer usually telling of wind and 
rain, a rising one, of serene and dry weather. 

3. But we may remark here, that when water, which has 
been suspended in the atmosphere, and has formed a part 
of it, separates as rain, the weight and bulk of the mass 
are diminished : and a wind must occur, when a sudden 
condensation of aeriform matter, in any situation, disturbs 
the equilibrium of the air; for the air around will rush 
towards the situation of diminished pressure. 

4. To the husbandman the barometer is of considerable 
use, by aiding and correcting the prognostics of the weather, 
which he draws from local signs familiar tc him ; but its 
great use, as a weather-glass, seems to be to the mariner, 
who roams over the whole ocean, and is often under skies 
and climates altogether new to him. The watchful captain 
of the present day, trusting to this extraordinary monitor, 
is frequently enabled to take in sail and to make ready for 
the storm, where, in former times, the dreadful visitation 
would have fallen on him unprepared. 

5. The marine barometer has not yet been in general us^ 
for many years, and the author of this work was one of a 
numerous crew, who probably owed their preservation to 
Its almost miraculous warning. It was in a southern lati- 
tude : the sun had just set with placid appearance, closing 
a beautiful afternoon, and the usual mirth of the evening 
watch was proceeding, when the captain's order cam*; to 
prepare, with all haste, for a storm. The barometer li:i<] 
begun to fall with appalling rapidity. 

6. As yet the oldest sailors had not perceived a threaten- 
ing ill tlx sky, and were surprised at the extent and hurry 


of the preparationa ; but the required measures were not 
completed, when a more awful hurricane burst upon theru 
than the most experienced had ever braved. Nothing could 
withstand it ; the sails, already furled, and closely bound to 
the yards, were riven away in tatters ; even the yards and 
masts themselves were in great part disabled, and, at one 
time, the whole had nearly fallen by the board. Such, for 
a few hours, was the mingled roar of the hurricane among 
the rigging, of the waves around, and of the incessant peals 
of thunder, that no human voice could be heard ; and, 
amid the general consternation, even the trumpet sounded 
in vain. 

7. In that awful night, but for the little tube of mercury 
which had given the warning, neither the strength of the 
noble ship, nor the skill and energies of the commander, 
could have availed any thing, and not a man would have 
escaped to tell the tale. On the following morning the 
wind was again at rest, but the ship lay upon the yet 
heaving waves, an unsightly wreck. 



1. Old Ironsides at anchor lay 

In the harbor of Mahon ; 
A dead calm rested on the bay, 

And the winds to sleep had gone: 
When little Jack, the captain's son, 

With gallant hardihood, 
Climbed shroud and spar, and then upon 

The main truck rose and stood. 

2. A shudder ran through every vein, 

All hands were turned on high ; 
There stood the boy with dizzy brain, 

Between the sea and sky. 
No hold had he above, below. 

Alone he stood in air: 
At that far height none dared to go ; 

No aid could reach him thera 


Q We gazed, but not a man cuuld speak, 

With horror all aghast; 
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek. 

We watched the quivering mast 
The atmosphere grew thick and hot, 

And of a lurid hue, 
As riveted unto the spot 

Stood officers and crew. 

4. The father came on deck, — he gasped, 

"Oh God! thy will be done!" 
Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 

And aimed it at his son ; — 
"Jump! far out, boy, into the wave. 

Jump, or I fire!" he said; 
"This chance alone your life can save. 

Jump! jump!" The boy obeyed. 

5. lie sunk, he rose, he lived, he moved, 

He for the ship struck out — 
On board we hailed the lad beloved. 

With many a manly shout; 
Ilis father drew, with silent joy. 

Those wet arms round his neck, 
And folded to his heart the boy, 

Then fainted on the deck. 



1. The lowest of politicians is that man who seeks to 
gratify an invariable selfishness by pretending to seek the 
public good. For a profitable popularity he accommodatos 
himself to all opinions, to all dispositions, to every side, and 
to every prejudice. He is a mirror, with no face of its own 
but a smooth surface from which each man of ten thousan 
may eee himself reflected. 

2. He glides from man to man coinciding with their views, 
simulating their tastes, and pretending their feelings; with 
this one he loves a man ; with that one he hates the same 
man ; he favors a law, and he dislikes it ; ho approves and 
opposes ; he is on both sides at once, and seemingly wishes 

KlDD— 13 


that he cou)4 be on one side more, flc attends meetings to 
suppress intemperance, — but at elections makes every grog- 
shop free to all drinkers. He can with equal relish plead 
most eloquently for temperance, or toss oflF a dozen glasses 
of whiskey in a dirty doggery. 

3. He thinks that there is a time for every thing, and 
therefore at one time he jeers and leers, and swears with a 
carousing blackguard crew ; and at another time, professing 
to have been happily converted, he displays all the various 
features of devotion. Indeed, he is a capacious Christian — 
an epitome of faith. 

4. He piously asks the class-leader of the welfare of his 
charge, for lie was always a Methodist, and always will be, — 
until he meets a Presbyterian ; then he is a Presbyterian, Old 
School or New, as the case requires ; however, as he is not a 
bigot, he can afford to be a Baptist in a good Baptist neigh- 
borhood, and with a wink he tells the pious elder that he 
never had one of his children baptized, not he ! He whis- 
pers to the Reformer that he abhors all creeds but Baptism 
and the Bible. After this, room will be found in his heart 
for the fugitive sects also, which come and go like clouds in 
a summer-sky. 

5. Upon the stump his tact is no less rare. He roars and 
bawls with courageous plainness, on points about which all 
agree; but on subjects where men differ, his' meaning is nicely 
balanced on a pivot that it may dip either way. He depends 
for success chiefly upon humorous stories. A glowing pa- 
triot telling stories is a dangerous antagonist ; for it is hard 
to expose the fallacy of a hearty laugh, and men convulsed 
with merriment are slow to perceive in what way an argu- 
ment is a reply to a story : men who will admit that he has 
not a solitary moral virtue, will vote for him, and assist him 

u obtaining the office to which he aspires. 




1. He was a man, 

Who stole the livery of the court of heaven, 
To servo the devil in ; in virtue's guise. 
Devoured the widow's house, and orphan's bread ; 
In holy phrase, transacted villainies 
That common sinners durst not meddle with. 

2. At sacred feast, he sat among the saints, 
And with his guilty hands touched holiest things; 
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed 

More deeply, or with graver countenance. 
Or longer prayer, wept o'er the dying man, 
Whose infant children, at the moment, he 
Planned how to rob. In sermon style he bought, 
And sold, and lied ; and salutation made. 
In Scripture terms. lie prayed, by quantity. 
And with his repetitions, long and loud. 
All knees were weary. 

3. With one hand he put 

A penny in the urn of poverty, 

And with the other took a shilling out 

On charitable lists, — those trumps, which told 

The public ear, who had, in secret, done 

The poor a benefit, and half the alms 

They told of, took themselves to keep them sounding,— 

lie blazed his name, more pleased to have it there. 

Than in the book of life. 

4. Seest thou the man 1 

A serpent with an angel's voice! a grave, 

With flowers bestrewed ! and yet, few were deceiyed. 

His virtues, being over-done, his face. 

Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities. 

Too pompously attended, and his speech, 

Larded too frequently, and out of time. 

With serious phraseology, were rents. 

That in his garments opened, in spite of him, 

Thro' which, the well-accu8t4)med eye, could see 

The rottenness of his heart. 


2. — THE MISER. 

1. But there is one in folly farther gone. 
With eye awry, incurable, and wild. 

The laughing-stock of demons and of men, 
And by hi^ guardian angel quite given up — 
The miser, who with dust inanimate 
Uolds wedded intercourse. 

2. Ill-guided wretch! 

Thou mayst have seen him at the midnight hour — 
When good men sleep, and in light-winged dreams 
Send up their souls to God — in wasteful hall, 
With vigilance and fasting worn to skin 
And bone, and wrapped in most debasing rags — 
Thou mayst have seen him bending o'er his heaps. 
And holding strange communion with his gold; 
And as his thievish fancy seems to hear 
The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed, 
And in his old, decrepit, withered hand, 
That palsy shakes, grasping the yellow earth 
To make it sure. 

3. Of all God made upright, 

And in their nostrils breathed a living soul, 
Most fiillen, most prone, most earthy, most debased ; 
Of all that sell Eternity for Time, 
None bargain on so easy terms with Death. 
Elustrious fool I nay, most inhuman wretch I 
lie sits among his bags, and, with a look 
Which hell might be ashamed of, drives the poor 
Away unalmsed, and midst abundance dies, 
Sorest of evils I dies of utter want. 


1. A New England whale-ship foundered in a gale, some 
years ago, in the Pacific Ocean. Her crew took to the boats j 
and, after toiling for several days and nights, two of the 
boats came in sight of an island. One of them was run 
through the surf, and the crew jumped on shore, making 
signs to the natives, to express their destitute condition. 
But no pity dwelt in those savage breasts. Rushing upon 


the exhausted seamen with their clubs, they instantly killed 
Ihcm, and made preparations to feast upon their bodies, for 
(hey were cannibals. 

2. Seeing the fate of their companions, the other boat's 
crew pulled hastily away from that dreadful spot ; and, after 
almost incredible sufferings were picked up by a friendly 
vessel and saved. Some years passed, and another ship was 
wrecked in the same seas, and near the same island. Her 
commander had been second mate of the former ship, and 
was saved with the boat's crew which witnessed the destruc- 
tion of their ship-mates by the cannibals. Again he ap- 
proached the island, a wrecked mariner, and reduced by 
hunger and exhaustion to an emaciated state. He recog- 
nized the fatal shore, and told his companions of the cannibals 
who dwelt beyond it. But they were too weak to put out to 
sea again. To do so was to die. They could but die if thej 
landed ; and, perhaps, the savages might be merciful. 

'V T'orceiving none of the natives, they hauled their boat 
the beach, and sought the shelter of the adjoining 
wooas, in the hope of finding fruits or berries for subsist- 
ence. But, once in the woods, their fears increased. They 
moved stealthily along, alarmed at the cracking of the dry 
bushes beneath their feet, and at the rustling of the leaves. 

4. Death seemed to speak in every sound, and to leer 
upon them through every opening glade of the forest. Cold 
sweats gathered on their sunburnt brows ; and more than 
once they halted, and consulted on the propriety of return 
ing to the boat ; but as often they resolved to advance, es- 
pecially as they found themselves ascending a wooded hill, 
which they hoped might furnish them with a nook or jave 
in which to hide. Thus trembling they proceeded. 

5. They approached the summit of the hill, which wai 
bold and rocky. The foremost of the party ventured from 
the shelter of the trees to view the island. Cautiously he 
stole, step by step, to the mountain's brow, till his eye 
caught sight of the village below. Then he literally sprang 
into the air, clapped his hands and shouted, ^^Sa/e ! Safe I 

G. "What is the matter?" asked his companions, who 


thought him crazy. "We are safe, I tell you, we are safe !** 
pointing to the village on the plain below. Looking down, 
the now joyful seamen beheld a church lifting its modest 
front above the huts of the natives. 

7. Then they shared in the transports of their companion. 
They leaped, they wept, they embraced. They knew by the 
church that the missionary was there. They knew that whare 
he lived and labored, cannibalism must be dead. They ao- 
cordingly descended to the plain, and found, instead of a 
cruel death, the utmost kindness, perfect security, and a 
generous hospitality. Had those wrecked mariners been 
skeptics or infidels, would they have needed any further 
proof of the humanizing and renovating power of the Gos- 
f il, or of the utility of missions ? 


1. The day had been a day of wind and storm ; — 

The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed, 
And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, 

Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last 

I stood upon the upland slope and cast 
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scone, 

Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between. 

2. The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 

Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 

Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; 

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung 

And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; 
To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. 

3. And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry, 

Flew many a glittering insect here and there ; 
And darted up and down the butterfly, 
That seemed a living blossom of the air. 
The flocks came scattering <'rom the thicket, where 


The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 

Strolled groups of damsels, frolicsome and fair; 
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, 
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play 

4. It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 

Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the cell, 

And precipice, upspringing like a wall, 

And glassy rivers, and white waterfall, 
And happy living things that trod the bright 

And beauteous scene; while, far beyond them all. 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, gdden light 

5. I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 

An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
When o'er earth's continents, and isles between. 

The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 

And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
When millions, crouching in the dust to one. 

No more shall beg their lives on bended knee. 
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. 

6. Too long a clash of arms amid her bowers. 

And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast. 
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 

And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last 

The storm; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past: 
Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly. 

And, like the glorious lights of summer, cast 
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
On al the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall 1>e. 



1. The Bceno of the following anecdote is laid in tdraw 
in^-room in Paris. One of the company was showing a gold 
medal which had been awarded him, and which was worth 
five thousand francs. The medal passed from hand to hand, 
•nd when, half an hour afterward, the owner asked for it 


again, it could not be found. Every nook and corner ^aa 
searched, but in vain. 

2. This sudden disappearance produced considerable agi- 
tation in the company, which was select but numerous, and 
finally some one proposed that every one should be searched, 
the men by the men and the women by the women. All 
the persons present eagerly signified their assent, with the 
exception of a single individual, who was presented that 
very night for the first time in the house. This man de- 
clared very calmly, but very decidedly, that he could not 
consent to be searched. The effect these words produced 
may easily be imagined. It was no longer doubted that he 
was the robber, and the gentleman who introduced him 
was more dead than alive. 

3. The master of the house was about turning the sup- 
posed-thief into the street, and the owner of the medal was 
about entreating the company to forget the circumstance, 
when a lady having risen from her seat, lo ! the missing 
medal suddenly fell out of one of the flounces of her dress, 
into which it had accidentally slipped and buried itself. 
The sensation produced by the sudden denouement was pro- 
digious. A cry of joyful surprise resounded throughout 
the room. The indiyidual suspected of the theft was de- 
clared innocent. 

4. Renouncing the stoical calmness, verging on indiffer- 
ence, which had hitherto characterized his demeanor, " This," 
said he, " gentlemen, is the explanation of my conduct, which 
doubtless seemed to you inexplicable. If I would not con- 
sent to be searched, it w,is because I was a stranger to every 
one present, with one exception, and because, by a strange 
coincidence — so strange that no one would have believed it 
possible — I had on my person a medal exactly similar to 
the one that was lost." 

5. He then produced the medal, which, if it had been 
found on him, would have ruined him a quarter of an houi 
before, but which was now but an additional proof of his 
innocence. This incident is but another proof of the uncer- 
tainty of human judgment. 



A OLNTLEMAN having appointed to meet his friend on 
particular business, went to the house and knocked at the 
door, which was opened by a servant girl. He informed 
her he wanted her master. "lie is gone out, sir," said sho. 
"Then your mistress will do," said the gentleman. "She 
i» gone out, too," said the girl. " My business is of con- 
sequence," returned he: "is your master's son at home?" 
"No sir; he is gone out.'* "That's unlucky, indeed; but 
perhaps it may not be long before they return — I will step 
in and sit by your fire." "0, sir, the fire has gone out 
too I" said the girl. Upon which the gentleman bade her 
inform her master, that he did not expect to be received so 


Emphasis is known to be of great consequence to a 
public speaker. Gesture is sometimes equally impressive. 
An anecdote is related of a clergyman who was tormented 
with a termagant wife. In the course of time she paid 
" the debt of nature," and her husband personally officiated 
at her funeral. Uis speech was devoted in part to " the 
thousand ills that flesh is heir to," and was concluded by a 
Scripture quotation. Extending his right hand toward the 
grave, he said: — "There the wicked cease from troubling," 
and then placing the same hand on his heart, he added, 
' and the weary are at rest." 


lie fell in nn attack upon the Turkish camp at Laepi, the site of thf 
tncicnt Pl.iton. Aii;;u»t 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of vittory 
II u 1 ... u„rda wore — "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain." 

1 . At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was drcoming of the hour, 

When Greece, her knco in RuppHance bent^ 
Should tremble at his power : 

In dreams, througli camp and court, he bore 

The trophies of a conqueror ; 


In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring: 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden-bird. 

2 At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
Tliere, had the Persian's thousands stood. 
There had the ghid earth drunk their blood, 

On old Piatca's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires, who conquered there. 
With arms to strike, and souls to dare, 

As quick, as far as thej. 

3. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke: 

That bright dream was his last; 
lie woke to heair his sentries shriek, 
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek 1" 
He woke — to die 'midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke. 

And death-shots, falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud; 
And heard, with voice, as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris, cheer his band : 
"Strike! till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike! for your altars and your fires; 
Strike ! for the green graves of your sires ; 

God, and your native land I " 

4. They fought, like brave men, long and well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain. 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang the proud hurrah! 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw, in death, his eyelids close, 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, . 

Like flowers at set of sun. 


Come to the bridal chamber, Death I 

Come to the mother, when she foeli«, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence, are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm ; 
Conio when the heart beats high, and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine. 
And thou art terrible! the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear, 

Of agony, are thine. 

But, to the hero, when his sword 

llaa won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Bozzaris! with the storied brave, 

Greece nurtured, in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
We tell thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — 
One of the few, the immortal names. 

That were not born to die. 


1. At a missionary meeting among the negroes in the West 
Indies, it is related, these three resolutions were adopted • 

(1.) We will all give something. 

(2.) W^c will all give according to our abilities. 

(3.) Wo will all give willingly. 

2. At the close of the meeting, a leading negro took his 
seat at a table, with pen and ink, to put down what each 
eame to contribute. Many advanced to the table, and 
.tanded in tluir coutributi md some less. 


Among the contributors was an old negro, who was ver^ 
rich, almost as rich as all the rest united. He threw down 
a small silver coin. " Take dat back again," said the chair- 
man of the meeting. " Dat may be 'cording to de fust 
resolution, but not 'cording to de second." 

3. The rich old man accordingly took it up, and hobbled 
back to his seat much enraged. One after another came 
forward, and all giving more than himself, he was ashamed, 
and again threw a piece of money on the table, saying, 
"Dar, take dat !" It was a valuable piece of gold, but given 
Bo ill-tcmperedly, that the chairman answered, " No, sir, dat 
won't do! Dat may be 'cording to de fust and second reso- 
lutions, but not 'cording to de third." He was obliged to 
take it up again. Still angry with himself and all the rest, 
he sat a long time, until nearly all were gone, and then 
advanced to the table, with a smile on his countenance, and 
laid a large sum of money on the table. " Dar, now, berry 
well," said the presiding negro; "dat will do; dat am 
'cording to all de resolutions." 


1. A POOR girl, who had just recovered from a fit of sick- 
ness, gathered up her scanty earnings, and went to the 
doctor's office to settle her bill. Just at the door, the law- 
yer of the place passed into the office before her, on a 
similar errand. 

" Well, doctor," said he, " I believe I am indebted to you, 
and I should like to know how much." 

" Yes," said the doctor, " I attended upon you about a 
week, and what should you charge me for a week's ser- 
vice? or what do you realize, on an average, for a week's 
service ?" 

2. " O," said the lawyer, "perhaps seventy-five dollars." 
"Very well, then, as my time and profession are as valu- 
able as yours, your bill is seventy five dollars." 

The poor girl's heart sunk within her, for should her oill 
be any thing like that, how could she ever pay? The law- 
yer paid his bill and passed out, when the doctor turned to 
the young woman, and kindly inquired her errand. 

N A R K A T 1 V i; . 157 

3. " 1 come," said she, '' to know what I owe you, a)* 
though I do not know that I can ever pay you." 

" I attended you about a week," said be. 

"Yes, sir!" 

" What do you earn a week ?" 

" Seventy-five cents." 

"Is that all?" 

*• Yes, sir." 
Then your bill is seventy-five cents." 

The poor girl paid him thankfully, and went back with a 
light heart. 


A DOCTOR was employed by a poor man to attend hia 
wife, who was dangerously ill. The doctor gave a hint that 
he had fears of not being paid. 

"I have five pounds," said the man to the doctor, "and 
if you kill or airc^ you shall have them." The woman died 
in the doctor's hands, and after a reasonable time he called 
for his five pounds. The man asked the doctor if he killed 
hia wife ? 


•'Did you cureT' 


" Then," said the poor man, " you have no legal demand !" 


1. The king stood still 

Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 
The sack-cloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
IIo bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe: 

2. "Alast my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! 

Thou, who wcrt made so beautifully fairl 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 

My proud boy, Absalom! 


3. Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill. 

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 
And hear thy sweet *my father,* from these dumb, 

And cold lips, Absalom! 

4. The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush 

Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; 
But thou no more, Avith thy sweet voice, shalt come 

To meet me, Absalom ! 

5. But, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. 

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 
How will its love for thee, as I depart. 

Yearn for thine ear, to drink its last, deep token I 
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom. 

To see thee, Absalom I 

6. And now farewell ! 'T is hard to give thee up. 

With death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee; 
And thy dark sin! oh! I could drink the cup. 

If, from this woe, its bitterness had won thee. 
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, 

My erring Absalom ! " 

7. He covered up his face, and bowed himself, 
A moment, on his child ; then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
Ilis hands convulsively, as if in prayer; 
And, as a strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall, 
Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 


1. The Irish people have been as little known to, as thcj 

have been grossly defiimed by the rest of Europe. The Irish 

peasantry, who necessarily compose the great body of the 

population, combine in tbeir character mauv of thoRp sin- 


gular and repugnant qualities which peculiarly designate 
the people of different nations; and this remarkable con- 
trariety of characteristic traits pervades almost the whole 
current of their natural dispositions. Laborious, domestic, 
accustomed to wants in the midst of plenty, they submit 
lo hardships without repining, and bear the severest priva- 
tions with stoic fortitude. The sharpest wit, and the 
shrewdest subtilty, which abound in the character of the 
Irish peasant, generally lie concealed under the semblance 
of dullness, or the appearance of simplicity ; and his lan- 
guage, replete with the keenest humor, possesses an idiom 
of equivocation, which never fails successfully to evade a 
direct answer to an unwelcome question. 

2. Inquisitive, artful, and penetrating, the Irish peasant 
learns mankind without extensive intercourse, and has an 
instinctive knowledge of the world, without mingling in its 
vocieties; and never, in any other instance, did there exist 
a poople who could display so much address and so much 
talent in the ordinary transactions of life as the Irish 

3. The Irish peasant has, at all periods, been peculiarly 
distinguished for unbounded but indiscriminate hospitality, 
which, though naturally devoted to the necessities of a 
friend, is never denied by him even to the distresses of an 
enemy. To be in want or misery, is the best recommenda- 
tion to his disinterested protection ; his food, his bed, his 
raiment are equally the stranger's and his own ; and the 
deeper the distress, the more welcome is the sufferer to the 
peasant's cottage. 

4. His attachments to his kindred are of the strongeet 
nature. The social duties are intimately blended with the 
natural disposition of an Irish peasant; though covered witk 
rags, oppressed with poverty, and perhaps with hunger, tht 
finest specimens of generosity and heroism are to be found 
in his unequaled character. 

.'), An enthu.siastic attarhmc! e place of their na- 

tivity is another striking trait of the Irish character, which 
neither time nor absence, prosperity nor adversity, can ob- 
literate or diminish. Wherever an Irish peasant was born. 


there be wishes to die ; and. however successful in acquiring 
wealth or rank in distant places, he returns with fond affec- 
tion to renew his intercourse with the friends and eompan 
ions of his youth and his obscurity. 

6. An innate spirit of insubordination to the laws has 
b3en strongly charged upon the Irish peasantry; but a 
people to whom the punishment of crimes appears rather as 
i sacrifice to revenge than a measure of prevention, can never 
have the same deference to the law, as those who are in- 
structed in the principles of justice, and taught to recognize 
its equality. It has, however, been uniformly admitted by 
every impartial writer on the affairs of Ireland, that a spirit 
of strict justice has ever characterized the Irish peasant. 

7. Convince him, by plain and impartial reasoning, that 
he is wrong; and he withdraws from the judgment-seat, if 
not with cheerfulness, at least with submission : but, to make 
him respect the laws, he must be satisfied that they are im- 
partial; and, with that conviction on his mind, the Irish 
peasant is as perfectly tractable, as the native of any other 
country in the world. 

8. An attachment to, and a respect for females is another 
characteristic of the Irish peasant. The wife partakes of 
all her husband's vicissitudes ; she shares his labor and his 
miseries, with constancy and with affection. At all the 
sports and meetings of the Irish peasantry, the womon are 
always of the company : they have a great influence ; and, 
in his smoky cottage, the Irish peasant, surrounded by his 
family, seems to forget all his privations. The natural 
cheerfulness of his disposition banishes reflection ; and he 
experiences a simple happiness, which even the highest 
ranks of society might justly envy. 





1 In the ancient republics of Greece and Rome oratory 
iFiis a necessary branch of a finished education. A much 
imaller proportion of the citizens were educated than among 
us; but of these a much larger number became orators. No 
man could hope for distinction or influence, and yet slight 
this art. The commanders of their armies were orators as 
well as soldiers, and ruled as well by their rhetorical as by 
their military skill. 'J'here was no trusting with them as 
with us, to a natural facility, or the acquisition of an acci- 
dential fluency by occasional practice. 

2. They served an apprenticeship to the art. They passed 
through a regular course of instruction in schools. They 
submitted to long and laborious discipline. They exercised 
themselves frequently, both before equals and in the pres- 
ence of teachers, who criticised, reproved, rebuked, excited 
emulation, and left nothing undone which art and persever- 
ance could accomplish. 

3. The greatest orators of anticjuity, so far from being 
favored by natural tendencies, except, indeed, in their high 
intellectual endowments, had to struggle against natural ob- 
stacles ; and, instead of growing up spontaneously to their 
unrivaled eminence, they forced themselves forward by the 
most discouraging, artificial process. 

4. Demosthenes combated an impediment in speech and 
an ungainliness of gesture, which, at first, drove him from 
the forum in disgrace. Cicero failed, at first, through weak- 
ness of lungs and an excessive vehemence of manner, which 
wearied the hearers and defeated his own purpose. These 
defects were conquered by study and discipline. He exiled 
himself from home, and, during his absence, in various lands, 
passed not a day without a rhetorical exercise, soaking the 



masters who writ- most severe in tii(i( i>iii. as the surest 
means of leading him to the perfection at which lie aimed 

5. Such, too. was the education of their other groat men. 
They were all. accMudini: to their aljilit y and station, orators; 
orators, not by nature or accident. l»ut l>y edu .ti n. 1' rmcd 
in M <iyu-t ur,M-t'«i of rhetorical traininir. 

ice to be Brawn from iti ii.^, 

t^ ; many of those who received an accomplished 

cdih came accomplished orators, because to become 

60 wa> uiK' purpose of their study; then, it is in the power 
of a much larger proportion among us to form ourselves 
into creditable and accurate speakers. The inference should 
not be denied until proved false by experiment. 

7. Let tliis art he ni'<<h^ -m object of attention : let young 
nun train ilieuiM-l\i- ;thfully and long; au'l if any 

of competent talents and tuierable science be found, at last, 
incapable of expressing themselves in continued and con- 
nected discourse, so as to aiis\ ;<ls of public spcak- 
inpr. then, and not till then. ]< i u i.- .-aiil, that a peculiar 
talent, or natural aj»titu'le. is re(juisite. the want of which 
must render effort vain ; then, and not till then, let us ac- 
quiesce in this indolent and timorous notion, which contra- 
dicts the whole testimony of antiquity and ail the experience 
of the world. wirt. 

" The night cometh when no man can work.^^ 

1. Awake to effort while the day is shining, 

The time to labor will not always last, 
And no regret, repentance, nor repining, 

Can bring to us again the buried Past. 
The silent sands of life are falling fast; 

Time tells our busy pulses, one by one ; 
And shall our work, so needful and so vast, 

Be all completed, or but just begun. 
When twilight shadows vail life's dim departing sun i 

2. What duties have our idle hands neglected? 

What useful lesson have we learned and taught? 
What warmth, what radiance have our minds reflected ? 
What rich and rare materials have we brought 


For deep investigation, earnest thought? 

Concealed within the soul's unfsithomed mine, 
ITow manj' a sparkling gem remains umvrought, 

That Industry might place on Learning's shrine, 
Or lavish on the world, to further God's design I 

3. The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean, 

Will leave a. track behind forever niore ; 
The lightest wave of influence, set in motion. 

Extends and widens to the eternal shore. 
Wo should be wary, then, who go before 

A myriad yet to be, and we should take 
Our bearing carefully, where breakers roar, 

And fearful tempests gather ; one mistake 
M'iy wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake. 

4. To effort ! ye whom God has nobly gifted 

With that prevailing power, undying song; 
For human good let every hand be lifted. 

For human good let every heart be strong. 
Is there no crying sin — no grievous wrong 

That ye may help to weaken or repress? 
In wayside hut and hovel — 'midst the throng, 

Down-trodden by privation and distress — 
Is there no stricken heart that ye can cheer and blewT 

5. Sing idle lays to idle harps no longer: 

Go peal an anthem at the gate of heaven — 
Exertion makes the fainting spirit stronger — 

Sing till the bonds of Ignorance are riven, 
Till dark Oppression from the earth is driven — 

Sing, till from every land and every sea, 
One universal triumph-song is riven, 

To hail the long expected jubilee, 
When every bond is broke, and every vassal free. 

9. And ye, whose birthright is the glorious dower 
Of Eloquence, to thrill the immortal soul I 
Use not unwisely the transcendent power 

To waken, guide, restrain, direct, control 
The heart's deep earnest feelings ; let the goal 

Of your ambition be, a name enshrined 
By love and gratitude upon the scroll. 
Where generations yet unborn shall find 
The deathless deeds of those who loved and blcs^od mankind 




1. There is no one quality that so much attaches man 
to his fellow man as cheerfulness. Talents may excite 
more respect, and virtue more esteem ; but the respect is 
apt to be distant, and the esteem cold. It is far otherwise 
with cheerfulness. It endears a man to the heart, not the 
intellect or the imagination. There is a kind of reciprocal 
diffusiveness about this quality that recommends its posses- 
sor by the very effect it produces. There is a mellow radi- 
ance in the light it sheds on all social intercourse, which 
pervades the soul to a depth that the blaze of intellect can 
never reach. 

2. The cheerful man is a double blessing — a blessing to 
himself and to the world around him. In his own character, 
his good nature is the clear, blue sky of his own heart, on 
which every star of talent shines out more clearly. To 
others he carries an atmosphere of joy, and hope, and en- 
couragement, wherever he moves. His own cheerfulness 
becomes infectious, and his associates lose their moroseness 
and their gloom in the amber colored light of the benevo- 
lence he casts around him. 

3. It is true that cheerfulness is not always happiness. 
The face may glow in smiles while the heart "runs in cold- 
ness and darkness below," but cheerfulness is the best ex- 
ternal indication of happiness that we have, and it enjoys 
this advantage over almost every other good quality, that 
the counterfeit is as valuable to society as the reality. It 
answers as a medium of public circulation, fully as well as 
the true coin. 

4. A man is worthy of all praise, whatever may be his 
private griefs, who does not intrude them on the happiness 
of his friends, but constantly contributes his quota of cheer- 
fulness to the general public enjoyment. " Every heart 
knows its own bitterness," but let the possessor of that heart 
take heed that he does not distill it into his neighbor's cup, 
and thus poi-on his felicity. 

5. There is no sight more commendable and more agree- 
able than a man, whom we know fortune has dealt with 
badly, smothering his peculiar griefs in his own bosom. 


&nd doing his duty in society with an unruffled brow and 
a cheerful mien. It is a duty which society has a right to 
demand — a portion of that great chain which binds human- 
ity together, the links of which every one should preserve 
bright and unsullied. 

6. It may be asked, what shall that man do whose bur- 
lens of grief are heavy, and made still heavier by the tears 
ke has shed over them in private ; shall he leave society ? 
Certainly, until he has learned to bear his own burden. 
Shall he not seek the sympathy of his friends? He had 
better not; sympathy would only weaken the masculine 
strength of mind which enables us to endure. Besides, 
sympathy unsought for is much more readily given, and 
sinks.deeper in its healing eifects into the heart. No! no I 
cheerfulness is a duty which every man owes. Let him 
faithfully discharge the debt. 


1. Talk to the point, and stop when you reach it. The 
faculty which some possess of making one idea cover a quire 
of paper, is despicable. To fill a volume upon nothing, is 
a credit to nobody, though Chesterfield wrote a very clever 
poem upon Nothing. 

2. There are men who get one idea into their heads, and 
but one, and they make the most of it. You can see it and 
almost feel it in their presence. On all occasions it is pro- 
duced till it is worn as thin as charity. They remind you 
of a twenty-four pounder discharging at a humming-bird. 
Vou hear a tremendous noise, see a volume of smoke, but 
joxx look in vain for the effects. The bird is scattered to 
B turns. 

|{. Just so with the idea uvelopcd in a cloud, and 

lost amid the rumblings ot wuia^ and flourishes. Short let- 
ters, sermons, speeches, and paragraphs, arc favorites with 
us. Commend us to the young man who wrote to his father, 
"Dear sir, I am going to get married; " and also to the old 
gentleman, who replied, '^Dear son, go ahead. 


4. Such arc tlic men for action. They do more than tLej 
lay. The half is not told in their cases. They are worth 
their weight in gold for every purpose of life, and are men 
every where prized. 


1. The perceptive faculties are those by which we be- 
come acquainted with the existence and qualities of the ex- 
ternal world. 

2. Consciousness is the faculty by which we become cog- 
nizant of the operations of our own minds. 

3. Original suggestion is the faculty which gives rise to 
original ideas, occasioned by the perceptive faculties or con- 

4. Abstraction is the faculty by which, from conceptions 
of individuals, we form conceptions of genera and species, 
or, in general, of classes. 

5. Memory is the faculty by which we retain and recall 
our knowledge of the past. 

6. Reason is that faculty by which, from the use of the 
knowledge obtained by the other f\iculties, wc are enabled 
to proceed to other and original knowledge. 

7. Imagination is that faculty by which, from materials 
already existing in the mind, we form complicated concep- 
tions or mental images, according to our own will. 

8. Taste is that sensibility by which we recognize the 
beauties and deformities of nature or art, deriving pleasure 
from the one and suffering pain from the other. 


1. In the first place make up your mind to accomplish 
whatever you undertake; decide upon some particular em- 
ployment, and persevere in it. All difl5culties are overcome 
by diligence and assiduity. 

2. Be not afraid to work with your own hands, and dili- 
gently, too. "A cat in gbves catches no mice." "He wl»# 
»<^mains in the mill grinds, not he who goes and comes " 


5. Attend to your business ; never trust to another. " A 
pot that belongs to many, is ill-stirred and worse boiled." 

4. Bo frugal. " That which will not make a pot will make 
a pot lid." "Save the pence, and the pounds will take care 
of themselves." 

5. Be abstemious. "Who dainties love shall beggan 

6. Kise early. " 'Ihu sleeping; fox catches no poultry." 
" Plow deep while sluggards sleep, and you will have corn 
to sell and keep." 

7. Treat every one with respect and civility. "Every 
thing is gained, and nothing lost by courtesy." Good man- 
ners insure success. 

8. Never anticipate wealth from any other source than 
labor ; especially never place dependence upon becoming 
the possessor of an inheritance. 

9. " He who waits for dead men's shoes, may have to go 
for a long time barefoot." " TTo who runs after a shadow 
has a wearisome race. 

10. Above all things never despair. "God is where He 
iras." He helps those who truly trust in Him. 


1. Whene'er you speak, remember every cause 
Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws — 
Pregnant in matter, in expression brief, 

Let every sentence stand with bold relief; 
On trifling points nor time nor talents waste, 
A sad offense to learning and to taste; 
Nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er suppose 
Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose. 

2. Loose declamation may deceive the crowd, 
And seem more striking as it grows more loud ; 
But sober sense rejects it with disdain, 

Ah nought but empty noise, and weak as vain. 


3. The froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade 
Of books and cases — all his stock in trade — 

The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and plaj 
Of low attorneys, strung in long array, 
The unseemly jest, the petulant reply, 
That chatters on, and cares not how, or why. 
Strictly avoid — unworthy tliemes to scan, 
They sink the speaker and disgrace the man, 
Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast. 
Scarce seen when present and forgot when past. 

4. Begin with dignity; expound with grace 
Each ground of reasoning in its time and place ; 
Let order reign thrcmghout — each topic touch. 
Nor urge its power too little, nor too much; 
Give each strong thought its most attractive view, 
In diction clear and yet severely true, 

And as the arguments in splendor grow. 
Let esvch reflect its light on all below ; 
When to the close arrived, make no delays 
By petty flourishes, or verbal plays. 
But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain, 
Like a strong current hastening to the main. 



1. Let us try to be happy! We may, if we will, 
Find some pleasures in life to o'er balance the ill ; 
There was never an evil, if well understood, 

But what, rightly managed, would turn to a good. 

If we were but as ready to look to the light 

As we are to sit moping because it is night, 

We should own it a truth, both in word and in deed, 

That who tries to be happy is sure to succeed. 

2. Let us try to be happy ! Some shades of regret 
Are sure to hang round, which we can not forget ; 
There are times when the lightest of spirits must bow, 
And the sunniest face wear a cloud on its brow. 

We must never bid feelings, the purest and best, 
Lie blunted and cold in our bosom at rest; 
But the deeper our own griefs the greater our need 
To try to be happy, lest other hearts bleed. 


3. 0, try to be happy I It is not for lon-^ 
We shall cheer on each other by counsel or song* 
If we make the best use of our time that we may, 
There is much we can do to enliven the way: 
Let us only in earnestness each do our best, 
Before God and our conscience, and trust for the rest; 
Still taking this truth, both in word and in deed. 
That who tries to be happy is sure to succeed 


1. That is, undoubtedly, the wisest and best regimen, 
which takes the infant from the cradle, and conducts him 
along through childhood and youth up to high maturity, in 
such a manner as to give strength to his arm, swiftness to 
his feet, solidity and amplitude to his muscles, symmetry 
to his frame, and expansion to his vital energies. It is ob- 
vious that this branch of education comprehends not only 
food and clothing, but air, exercise, lodging, early rising, 
and whatever else is requisite to the full development of the 
physical constitution. The diet must be simple, the apparel 
must not be warm, nor the bed too soft. 

2. Let parents beware of too much restriction in the 
management of their darling boy. If they would make 
him hardy, and rugged, and fearless, they must let him go 
abroad often in his early boyhood, and amuse himself by 
the hour together, in smoothing and twirling the hoary 
locks of winter. Instead of keeping him shut up all day 
with a stove, and graduating his sleeping-room by Fah- 
renheit, they must let him face the keen edge of a north 
wind when the mercury is below zero ; and, instead of mind- 
ing a little shivering and complaining when he returns, 
«b?er up bis spirits and send him out again. In this way 
tliey will teach him that he was not born to live in the 
nursery, nor to brood over the fire ; but to range abroad as 
free as the snow and the air, and to gain warmth from ex- 

KiDD. — 15 


3. 1 loTe and admire the youth who turns not back from 
the hoTling wiiitrv blast, nor withers under the blaze of 
Bumrae*; who r -nifies " mole-hills into mountains," 

but whose daring eye, exulting, scales the eagle's airy crag, 
and who is ready to undertake any thing that is prudent 
and lawful within the range of possiMlity. Who would 
think of planting the mountain-oak in a green-house? or 
of rearing the cedar of Lebanon in a lady's flowcr-j't ' 
Who does not know that in order to att^iin their mighty 
strength and majestic forms, they must freely enjoy the rain 
and the .^un.'^liine, and must feel the rocking of the tempest? 


1. 'I as much coi! l>etween the words and 
the thoughts, as there is between the thoughts and the 
words ; the latter arc not only the expression of the former, 
but they have powi t upon the soul and leave the 
stain of corruption incre. 

2. A young man who allows himself to use profane and 
vulgar words, has not only shown that there is a foul spot 
on his mind. 1>ut Iv '1  '^orance of that word he extends 
tliat sjMtt aiul inil till by indulgence it will soon 
pollute and ruin the whole soul. 

o. He eareful of your words, as well as of your thoughts. 
If you can control the tongue, that no improper words be 
pronounced by it, you will soon be able to control the mind 
and save it from corruption. You extinguish the fire by 
smotherini: it, or prevent bad thoughts bursting out in lan- 
guage. Never utter a word, any where, which you would be 
ashamed to speak in tlie presence of the most religious man. 
Try this practice a little, and you will soon have command 
f yourself. 


Rash oaths, kept or broken, often produce guilt. 
Use the means and trust God for the blessing. 
Zealously strive to do good for the sake of good. 
Always tell the truth; you will find it easier than lying 
Virtuous actions, sooner or later, will find their reward. 


Standing water i» unwholesome — so, too, is a standing 

Zeal without judgment is an evil, though it bo zeal unto 

If folly were a pain there would be groaning in every 

The choicest pleasures of life lie within the range of 

Tattlers and hypocrites are twins, and the oflFspring of the 

Faith has a quiet breast. 

Speak not rather than speak ill. 

Quick to forgive, and slow to anger. 

The sweetest pleasures are soon gone. 

Guilt is best discovered by its own fears. 

Patience is the key of content. 


1. I M'OULD be willing to choose my friend by the (juality 
of his laugh, and abide the issue. A glad, gushing outflow 
— a clear, ringing, mellow note 6f the soul, as surely indi- 
cates a genial and genuine nature, as the rainbow in the 
dew-drop heralds the morning sun, or the frail flower in the 
wilderness betrays the zephyr-tossed seed of the parterre. 

2. A laugh is one of God's truths. It tolerates no dis- 
guises. Falsehood may train its voice to flow in softest 
cadences — its lips to wreathe into smiles of surpassing sweet- 
ness — its face 

•• to put on 

That look we trust in 

but its laugh will betray the mockery. Who has not started 
and shuddered at the hollow "he-he-he!" of some velvet 
voiced Mephistophclcs, whose sinuous fascinations, without 
this note of warning — this premonitory rattle — might have 
bound the soul with a strong spell ! 

3. Leave nature alone. If she is noble, her broadest ex- 
pression will soon tune itself down to fine aceordauue with 


life's earnestness; if she is base, no silken interwcavings car 
keep out of sight her ugly liead of discord. If we put a 
laugh into strait-jacket and leading-strings, it becomes an 
abortion ; if we attempt to refine it, we destroy its pure, mel- 
lifluent ring ; if we suppress a laugh, it struggles and dies 
on the heart, and the place where it lies is apt ever after to 
be weak and vulnerable. No, laugh truly, as you would 
ipcak truly, and both the inner and the outer man will 
rejoice. A full, spontaneous outburst opens all the delicate 
valves of being, and glides, a subtle oil, through all its com- 
plicated mechanism. 

4. Laugh heartily, if you would keep the dew of your 
youth. There is no need to lay our girlhood and boyhood 
so doggedly down upon the altar .of sacrifice, as we toil up 
life's mountain. Dear, innocent children, lifting their dewy 
eyes and fair foreheads to the benedictions of angels — prat- 
tling and gamboling because it is a great joy to live, should 
flit like sunbeams among the stern-faced and stalwart. 
Young men and maidens should walk with strong, elastic 
tread and cheerful voices among the weak and uncertain. 
White hairs should be no more the insignia of age, but the 
crown of ripe and perennial youth. 

5. Laugh for your beauty. The joyous carry a fountain 
of light in their eyes, and round into rosy dimples, where 
the echoes of gladness play at "hide and go seek." Your 
" lean and hungry Cassius " is never betrayed into a laugh, 
and his smile is more cadaverous than his despair. 

G. Laugh, if you would live. He only exists, who drags 
his days after him like a massive chain, asking sympathy 
with uplifted eyebrows and weak utterance, as the beggar 
»sks alms. Better die, for your own sake and the world's 
take, tnan to pervert the uses, and graces, and dignities 
of lite. 

7. Make your own sunshine and your own music^— keep 
your heart operf to the smile of the good J'ather, and brave 
ill things. 

" Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt : 
And every laugh so merry draws one out." 



1. Don't run in debt — never mind, never mind. 

If your clothes are all faded and torn ; 
Fix 'em up, make them do, it is better by far, 

Than to have the heart weary and worn. 
Who'll love you the more for the set of your hat, 

Or your ruff, or the tie of your shoe, 
The style of your vest, or your boots or cravat. 

If they know you're in debt for the new? 

2. There's no comfort, I tell you, in walking the street 

In fine clothes, if you know you're in debt. 
And feel that perchance you some tradesman may meet. 
Who will sneer — ** They're not paid for yet." 

3. Good friends, let me beg of you don't run in debt, 

If the chairs and the sofa are old ; 
They will fit your backs better than any new set. 

Unless they're paid for — with gold. 
If the house is too small, draw the closer together, 

Keep it warm with a hearty good-will ; 
A big one unpaid for, in all kinds of weather, 

Will send to your warm heart a chill. 

4. Don't run in debt — dear girls, take a hint, 

If the fashions have changed since last season. 
Old Nature is out in the very same tint, 

And old Nature we think has some reason. 
But just say to your friend, that you can not afford 

To spend time to keep up with the fashion ; 
That your purse is too light, and your honor too brigbf 

To be tarnished with such silly passion. 

5. Gents, don't run in debt — let your friends, if they can. 

Have fine houses, and feathers, and flowers, 
But, unless they are paid for, be more of a man, 

Than to envy their sunshiny hours. 
If you've money to spare, I have nothing to say — 

Spend your dollars and dimes as you please. 
But mind you, the man who his note has to pay, 

Is the man who is never at ease. 

6. Kind husbands, don't run in debt any more ; 

'T will fill your wife's cup of sorrow. 
To know that a neighl>or may call at your dour, 
With a bill you must settle to-morrow ; 


! take my advice — it is good I it is true ! 

(But, lest you may some of you doubt it,) 
I'll whisper a secret, now seeing 'tis you : 

I have tried it, and know all about it 

7. The chain of a debtor is heavy and cold, 
Its links, all corrosion and rust. 
Gild it o'er as you will, it is never of gold ; 
Then spurn it aside with digust. 



1. The education, moral and intclleotual, of every indi- 
vidua], must be chiefly bis own work. Rely upon it that 
the ancients were right — both in morals and intellect, we 
give their final shape to our own characters, and thus become, 
emphatically, the architects of our own fortunes. IIow else 
could it happen that young men, who have bad precisely 
the same opportunities, should be continually presenting us 
witb such different results, and rushing to such opposite 
destinies? Difference of talent will not solve it, because 
that difference very often is in favor of the disappointed can- 

2. You shall see, issuing from the walls of the same col- 
lege — nay, sometimes from the bosom of the same family — 
two young men, of whom the one shall be admitted to be 
a penius of high order, the other scarcely above the point 
of mediocrity; yet you shall see the genius sinking and 
perishing in poverty, obscurity, and wretchedness ; while 
on the other hand you shall observe the mediocre plodding 
nisi slow, but sure way up the hill of life, gaining steadfast 
footing at every step, and mounting at length to eminenco 
and distinction, an ornament to his family, a blessing to ..i- 
country. Now, whose work is this? Manifestly their own 
They are the architects of their respective fortunes. 

3. The best seminary of learning that can open its por- 
tals to you, can do no more than afford you the opportu- 
nity of instruction : but it must depend at last on your- 
selves, whether you will be instructed or not, or to what 
point you will push your instruction. And of this be as- 


sured, I speak from observation a certain truth : there is no 
excellence without great labor. It is the fiat of fate from 
which no power of genius can absolve you. 

4. Genius unexerted is like the poor moth that flutters 
around a candle till it scorches itself to death. If genius 
be desirable at all, it is only of that great and magnanimous 
kind, which, like the condor of South America, pitches from 
iho summit of Chimborazo above the clouds, and sustains 
itself at pleasure, in that empyreal region, with an energy 
rather invigorated than weakened by the efi'ort. 

5. It is this capacity for high and long-continued exer- 
)ion — this vigorous power of profound and searching inves- 
tigation- -this careering and wide-spreading comprehension 
of mind, and those long reaches of thought, that 

" — Pluck bright honor from tlie pale-faced moon, 
Or diye into tho bottom of the deep, 
Where fathom line could never touch the ground, 
And drag up drown-ed honor by tlie locks — " 

this is the prowess, and these the hardy achievements which 
are to enroll your names among the great men of the earth, 



1. We have faith in old proverbs full surely, 

For wisdom has traced what they tell, 
And truth may be drawn up as purely 

From them, as it may from a "well." 
Let us question the thinkers and doers, 

And hear what they honestly say, 
And you'll find they believe, like bold-wooers, 

In '* Where there's a will there's a way." 

2. The hills have been high for man's mounting, 

The woods have been dense for his ax, 
The stars have been thick for his counting, 

The sands have been wide for his tracks. 
The sea has been deep for his diving, 

The poles have been broad for his sway. 
But bravely he's proved by his striving, 

That " Where there's a will there's a waj." 


3. Have ye vices that ask a destroyer, 

Or passions that need your control? 
Let Reason become your employer, 

And your body be ruled by your soul. 
Fight on, though ye bleed at the trial, 

Resist with all strength that ye may, 
Ye may conquer Sin's host by denial. 

For " Where there's a will there's a way. 

4. Have ye poverty's pinching to cope with? 

Does suffering weigh down your might? 
Only call up a spirit to hope with, 

And dawn may come out of the night. 
Oh ! much may be done by defying 

The ghost of Despair and Dismay, 
And much may be gained by relying 

On *' Where there's a will there's a way." 

5. Should ye see afar off that worth winning. 

Set out on a journey with trust, 
And ne'er heed though your path at beginning 

Should be among brambles and dust. 
Though it is by footsteps ye do it, 

And hardships may hinder and stay, 
Keep a heart and be sure you go through it, 

For ** Where there's a will there's a way." 



1. " Labor to keep alive in your breast that little tspark 
of celestial fire, conscience," was one of a series of maxima 
which Washington framed or copied for his own use when a 
boy. His rigid adherence to principle, his steadfast dis- 
charge of duty, his utter abandonment of self, his unre- 
served devotion to whatever interests were committed to his 
care, attest the vigilance with which he obeyed that maxim. 
He kept alive that spark. He made it shine before men. 
He kindled it into i flame that illumined his life. No occa- 
•ion was so momentous, no circumstance so minute, as to 


tbsolvo him from following its guiding ray. The explana- 
tion in his account-book, in regard to his wife's annual visit 
to the camp during the ravolutionary war, and his passing 
allusion to the ''self-denial" which the exigences of his 
country had cost him, furnish a charming illustration of his 
habitual exactness. 

2 The fact that every barrel of flour, which bore the brand 
of •' George Washington, Mount Vernon," was exempted 
from the otherwise uniform inspection in the West India 
ports — that name being regarded as an ample guarantee of 
the quality and quantity of any article to which it was af- 
fixed — dupplies a not less striking proof that his exactness 
was every where understood. 

2. — MIRTH. 

1. It is something even to look upon enjoyment, so that 
it be free and wild, and in the face of nature, though it is 
but the enjoyment of an idiot. It is something to know 
that heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a crea- 
ture's breast; it is something to be assured that, however 
lightly men may crush that faculty in their fellows, the 
great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his despised and 
slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy 
in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in jail? 

2. Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of 
Infinite Benevolence with an eternal frown, read in the ever- 
lasting book, wide open to your view, the lesson it would 
teach. Its pictures are not in the black and somber hues, 
but bright and glowing tints; its music, save when ye drown 
it, is not in sighs and groans, but in songs and cheerful 
sounds. Listen to the million of voices in the summer air, 
and find one dismal as your own. Remember, if you 3au 
the sense of hope and pleasure which every grand return ol 
day awakens in the breast of all your kind, who have not 
changed your nature, and learn wisdom even from the wit- 
less, when their hearts are lifted up, they know not why, hy 
aP the mirth and happiness it brings. 




There are a thousand pretty, engaging httle ways 
which every person may put on, without the risk of being 
deemed either affected or foppish. The sweet smile, the 
quiet cordial bow, the earnest movement in addressing a 
friend, or more especially a stranger, whom one may recom- 
mend to our good regards, the inquiring glance, the graceful 
attention which is captivating when united with self-posses- 
sion, these will insure us the good regards of even a churl. 
Above all there is a certain softness of manner which should 
be cultivated, and which, in either man or woman, adds a 
eharm that almost entirely compensates for lack of beauty. 
The voice may be modulated so to intonate, that it will speak 
directly to the heart, and from that elicit an answer; and 
politeness may be made essential to our nature. Neither is 
time thrown away in attending to such things, insignificant 
ts they may seem to those who engage in weightier matters. 


1. There's not a cheaper thing on earth. 

Nor yet one half so dear ; 
'Tis worth more than distinguished birth, 
Or thousands gained a year. 

2. It lends the day a new delight ; 

'Tis virtue's firmest shield ; 
And adds more beauty to the night 
Than all the stars may yield. 

3. It maketh poverty content. 

To sorrow whispers peace ; 
It is a gift from heaven sent 
For mortals to increase. 

4. It meets you with a smile at mom ; 

It lulls you to repose; 
A flower for peer and peasant bom. 
An everlasting rose. 

5. A charm to banish grief away, 

To free the brow from care ; 


Turns toars to smiles, makes dullness gay — 
Spreads gladness every where. 

6 And yet 'tis cheap as summer's dew, 
That gems the lily's breast ; 
A talisman for love as true 
As ever man possessed. 

7. As smiles the rainbow through the cloud 

When threat'ning storm begins — 
As music 'mid the tempest loud, 
That still its sweet way wins — 

8. As springs an arch across the tide, 
• When waved conflicting foam, 
So comes this seraph to our side, 

This angel to our home. 

9. What may this wondering spirit be, 

With power unheard before — 

This charm, this bright divinity? 

Qood nature — nothing morel 

10. Good temper — 'tis the choicest gifl 
That woman homeward brings. 
And can tlie poorest peasant lift 
To bliss unknown to kings. 


1. 1 ASK the young man who is just forming his habits of 
life, or just beginning to indulge thoj^e habitual trains of 
thought out of which habits grow, to look around him and 
mark the examples whose fortune he would covet, or whose 
fate he would abhor. Even as wo walk the streets, we meet 
with exhibitions of each extreme. 

2. Here, behold a patriarch, whose stock of vigor three- 
score years and ten seem hardly to have impaired. His 
erect form, his firm step, his elastic limbs, and undimmcd 
senses, are so many certificates of good conduct; or, rather, 
so many jewels and orders of nobility with which nature 
has honored him for bis fidelity to her laws. His fair com- 


plexion shows that his blood has never been corrupted ; hii 
pure breath, that he has never yielded his digestive apparatus 
to abuse ; his exact language and keen apprehension, that 
his brain has never been drugged or stupefied by the poisons 
of distiller or tobacconist. 

3. Enjoying his appetites to the highest, he has preserved the 
power of enjoying them. As he drains the cup of lifo, there 
are no lees at the bottom. His organs will reach the goal of 
existence together. Painlessly as a candle burns down in 
its socket, so will he expire ; and a little imagination would 
convert him into another Enoch, translated from earth to a 
better world without the sting of death. 

4. But look on an opposite extreme, where* an opposite 
history is recorded. What wreck so shocking to behold as 
the wreck of a dissolute man ! — the vigor of life exhausted, 
and yet the first steps in an honorable career not taken ; in 
himself a lazar-house of diseases ; dead, but by a heathenish 
custom of society, not buried ! Rogues have had the initial 
letter of their title burnt into the palms of their hands; even 
for murder, Cain was only branded on the fotehead ; but 
over the whole person of the debauchee or the inebriate, the 
signatures of infamy are written. 

5. How nature brands him with stigma and opprobrium ! 
How she hangs labels all over him, to testify her disgust at 
his existence, and to admonish others to beware of his ex- 
ample 1 How she loosens all his joints, sends tremors along 
his muscles, and bends forward his frame, as if to bring him 
upon all-fours with kindred brutes, or to degrade him to the 
reptile's crawling ! How she disfigures his countenance, as 
if intent upon obliterating all traces of her own image, so 
that she may swear she never made him ! How she pours 
rheum over his eyes, sends foul spirits to inhabit his orcath. 
and shrieks, as with a trumpet, from every pore of his bodj 
"Behold a Beast!" 

6. Such a man may be seen in the streets of our cities 
every day : if rich enough, he may be found in the saloons, 
and at the tables of the "Upper Ten ;" but surely, to every 
man of purity and honor, to every man whose wisdom as 
well as whose heart is unblemished, the wretch who pomea 


cropped and bleeding from the pillory, and redolent with its 
appropriate perfumes, would bo a guest or a companion far 
less offensive and disgusting. Now let the young man, re- 
joicing in his manly proportions, and in his comeliness, look 
on this picture, and on this, and then say, after the likeness 
of which model he intends his own erect stature and sublime 
iountenance shall bo configured. 



1. Is NOT the field, with lively culture green, 
A sight more joyous than the dead morass ? 
Do not the skies, with active ether clean. 
And fanned by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass 
The foul November fogs, and slumb'rous mass. 
With which sad nature vails her drooping face ? 
Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass, 
Gay dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace? — 

The same in all holds true, but chief in human race. 

2. Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
How tasteless then whatever can be given I 
Health is the vital principle of bliss. 

And exercise of health. In proof of this 
Behold the wretch who slugs his life away, 
Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss. 
While ho whom'toil has braced, or manly play, 
Ua8 light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day. 

3. 0, who can speak the vigorous joy of health, — 
Unclogged the body, unobscurcd the mind? 

The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth 
The temperate evening falls serene and kind. 
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find: 
See! how the younglings frisk along the meads. 
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind; 
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds; 
Yet what bat high-strung health this dancing plcasance breeds T 

182 Ei^OCUTION. 

4. Theie are, I see, who listen to my lay, 
Wlio wretched, sigh for virtue, yet despair. 
''All may be done,'' methinks I hear them say, 

" Even death despised by generous actions fair,— 
All, but for those who to these bowers repair 1 
Their every power dissolved in luxury, 
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair. 
And from the powerful arms of sloth get free — 
Tis rising from the dead: — Alas! — it can not be!" 

5. Would you, then, learn to dissipate the band 
Of these huge, threatening difficulties dire. 

That in the weak man's way like lions stand, 
His soul appall, and damp bis rising fire? 
llesolve, — resolve I and to be men aspire. 
£xert that noblest privilege, — alone 
llere to mankind indulged: — control cUsiret 
Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne. 
Speak the commanding word, Ivfillt — and it is done. 



1. WuY ask the teacher or some classmate to solve that 
problem? Do it yourself. You might as well let them eat 
your dinner as "do your sums for you." It is in studying 
as in eating — he that does it gets the benefit, and not he 
that sees it done. 

2. Do not ask your teacher to parse all the difficult 
words, or assist you in the performance of^any of your du- 
ties. Do it yourself. Never mind, though they look daik 
as Egypt. Do n't ask even a hint from any body. Every 
trial increases your ability, and you will finally succeed by 
dint of the very wisdom and strength gained in this effort, 
even though at first the problem was beyond your skill. It 
is the study and not the answer that really rewards your 

3. Look at that boy who has succeeded after six hours of 
hard study, perhaps. How his eye is lit up with a proud 
joy, as he marches to his class! He reads like a conqueror, 


XTkd well he may. His poor, weak schoolmate, who gave up 
after the first trial, now looks up to him with something of 
wonder as a superior. 

4. There lies a great gulf between those boys who stoo 1 
yesterday side by side. They will never sland together as 
equals again. The boy that did it for himself has taken a 
stride upward, and, what is better still, has gained strength 
for greater efforts. The boy who waited to see others do it 
has lost both strength and courage, and is already looking 
for some excuse to give up school and study forever. 

^ 2. — ELOQUENCE. 

Eloquence consists in feeling a truth yourself, and in 
making those who hear you feel it. Oratory is not vocifera- 
tion ; it is not stamping a hole in the platform, nor beating 
all the dust out of the cushion of the pulpit; nor tearing 
off the skirt of your coat in the violence of your gesticula- 
tions. It is not holding the breath until the face is purple 
and the eyes bloodshot; it is not hissing through the teeth 
like the fizzle of a squib, nor crouching down, then bound' 
ing upward like a wildcat springing on its prey ; nor rant- 
ing about from one side of the rostrum to another until the 
skin is drenched in perspiration, and the body weakened 
into helplessness. You are not eloquent in all this, unless 
it be for the grave, for it is suicidal. 


Whatever you read, whatever you see, or hear, or do, at 
the earliest opportunity reduce it, be it much or little, to a 
few simple ideas, a short sketch, not longer than an epitaph, 
that it may be clearly impressed on the memory, without 
being a burden or taking too much room. Most people rur 
on the moment they are set on a subject, if they are at all 
personally interested. They plunge into circumstances, lose 
their heads, and fling masses of description, narrative, whole 
documents, dialogues — in a word, the whole thing over 
again, at their hearers. The great art is to extract the 
essence of a story, and perfume " ' ' a little sentiment — 


good nature, if uothing else. It will take its place in your 
memory, be always at hand, and be producible as we I as 


I Tell me not in mournful numbers, 
^ Life is but an empty dream I 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And Uiings are not what they seem. 

2. Life is real I Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal : 
" Dust thou art, to dust returncst,'' 
Was not written of the soul. 

3. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end and way, 
But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us further than to^ay. 

4. Art is long, and time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brare, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

5. In the world's broad field of battle, 

In tlie bivouac of life. 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle 1 
Be a hero in the strife 1 

6. Trust no Future, howe'er pleasanti 

Let tlie dead Past bury its dead! 
Act I — act in the living Present I 
Heart within, and God o'er head. 

7. Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

8. Footprints, that perhaps another. 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 


9 Let us, then, be up aud doing, 
With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait 



1. Owing mainly to the flexibility of his constitution, 
although obtaining much artificial aid, man can subsist 
uiider^the greatest climatic extremes. The Esquimaux en- 
dure the cold between the parallels of seventy and eighty 
degrees; the African Negroes subsist under the burning sun 
of the Equator ; while Europeans, accustomed to an inter- 
mediate temperature, have borne the rigor of the highest 
accessible latitude, and the fiercest heat of the Torrid Zone. 

2. The power of the human frame to resist cold, accord- 
ing to Sir John Ross, who experienced four successive Arc- 
tic winters, appears to vary remarkably in different consti- 
tutions. His general conclusion is, that the ruddy, elastic, 
florid, or clear-complexioned man, endowed with what physi- 
cians call the sanguine temperament, has a peculiar power 
of retaining heat; while those having pale, flabby, sallow 
countenances, whose temperament is said to be phlegmatic 
or melancholic, are proportionately deficient. 

3. The most ample clothing will not compensate for the 
deficiency, since it can only retain the internal heat ; and if 
this be wanting one might as well attempt to " warm a piece 
of ice by means of a blanket." He places his chief reliance 
on abundance of food; and it is well known that an Esqui- 
maux takes as much as ten or tweh'e pounds weight of ani- 
mal food in twenty-four hours, itsefiect being heightened by 
the fat and oleaginous quality of the diet. 

4. The oxygen which is inhaled with atmospheric air 
combines chemically with the carbon of the food, and thai 
chemical action is the cause o2 heat and vital force. There- 
fore a much larger supply of animal food, which contains 
many times more carbon than vegetables, is necessary 

KtDD.— 16 


in a cold climate; while, amid torrid heat, rice and frait 
form a more approprijito flict. 


*• A CERTAIN amount of opposition," says John Neal, **i8 
a great help to a man." Kites rise against and not with the 
wind. Even a head-wind is better than none. No man 
ever worked his passage any where in a dead calm. Let no 
man wax pale, therefore, because of opposition. Opposition 
is what he wants, and must have, to be good for any thing. 
Hardship is tho. native soil of manhood and self-reliance. 


A GOOD character in a young man is what a firm founda 
tion is to the architect, who proposes to erect a building — on 
it he can build with safety ; but let a single part of this be 
defective, and he goes on a hazard, amid doubting and dis- 
trust, and ten to one the edifice he erects on it will tumble 
down at last, and mingle all that was built on it in ruin. 
Without a good character poverty is a curse — with it, it is 
scarcely an evil. All that is bright in the hope of youth, all 
that is calm and blissful in the sober scenes of life, all that 
is soothing in the vale of years, centers in, and is derived 
from, a good character. 


1. Who cares what they '11 think, or what they '11 say, 
concerning ourselves, so long as we have the approval of our 
own reason and conscience ? What they '11 think and what 
they '11 say, are to us as idle scarecrows, dead carcasses of 
conventionality, which we hold in abhorrence and contempt. 

2. And yet, how many waste their lives, and fritter 
away their man and womanhood in the everlasting query, 
" What '11 they think ? " They are serfs to the world 
around them — bond-slaves to the whims and caprices of 
others. "What '11 they think?" arranges all their house- 
hold, fashions their drawing-rooms, their feasts, their 

DIDACTIC. ^ 1^7 

equipage, their garments, their amusements, their sociality, 
their religion, their every thing I Poor, hampered souls ! 

3. Society abounds in such. Men are often enough of 
the lot, but women oftener. If one hoops, all must hoop ; 
if one flounces, all must flounce. No matter whether it is 
convenient or prudent, they must follow the lead. "What '11 
they think?" if one dares to stand alone, is their withering 
Tear and torment. 

4. They have lost all desire to be independent. It is how 
will the Priggses look at it, that determines them. They 
must do just as the Priggses do. Out upon the Priggses 
and all their retinue ! They are emasculating society, con- 
fusing weak men's ideas, and making weak women's minds 
weaker. Let us have done with, " What '11 they think ? " 
and bury it with the corpses of the bowing, scraping, cring- 
ing, and fawning of feudal days and universal slave ages. 


1. Voyager upon life's sea. 

To yourself bo true ; 
And where'er your lot may be, 

Paddle your own canoe. 
Never, though the winds may rave, 

Falter nor. look back, 
But upon the darkest wave 

Leave a shining track. 

2. Nobly dare the wildest storm, 

Stem the hardest gale, 
Brave of heart and strong of arm, 

You will never fail. 
When the world is cold and dark. 

Keep an end in view, 
And toward the beacon mark. 

Paddle your own canoe. 

1. Every wave that bears you on 
To the silent shore, 
From its sunny source has gone 
To return no more: 


Then let not an hour's delay 

Cheat you of your due ; 
But while it is called to-day, 

}>.,!,ii,. y.>\iT own canoe. 

4 If ^> Mw ,j,rAi Jellied you wealth. 

Lofty state and power, 
Honest fame and hardy health 

Are a better dower ; 
But if these will not suffice, 

Golden gain pursue, 
And to win the glittering prize, 

Paddle your own canoe. 

5. Would you wrest the wreath of fame 

From the hand of Fate ; 
Would you write a deathless name, 

With the good and great; 
Would you bless your fellow men? 

Heart and soul imbue 
With the holy task, and then 

Paddle your own canoe. 

6. Would you crush the tyrant Wron|^ 

In the world's fierce fight? 
With a spirit brave and strong, 

Battle for the Right; 
And to break the chains that bind 

The many to the few — 
To enfranchise slavish mind. 

Paddle your own canoe. 

7. Nothing great is lightly won, 

Nothing won is lost — 
Every good deed nobly done. 

Will repay the cost: 
Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, 

All you will to do ; 
But if you succeed, you must 

Paddle your own canoe. 



1. — PURE AIR. 

1. Nothing is more detrimental to health than foul air. 
The air drawn into the lungs is the great purifier of the 
blood ; from the blood every part and fiber of the body 
receive growth and nourishment ; and if this be allowed to 
carry impurities through the system, health will be speedily 
destroyed. Either immediate death, or eventual disease, 
will unavoidably ensue. As you are going to rest at night, 
suspend a bird at the top of your curtained bedstead, on 
the irtside, and you will find it lifeless in the morning. 
It is for this reason that domesticated birds are so fre 
quently short-lived and sickly. They need to inhale the 
free air from the lakes and mountains. 

2. Washington Irving remarks, that, on his endeavoring 
to sleep in a close room, after his famous wild-wood ram- 
bles in the west, he found the air so oppressive as almost 
to banish sleep from his eyelids. Dr. Franklin states, that 
he seldom or never slept in a room, at home or abroad, 
either in summer or in winter, without having raised in his 
apartment one or more of the windows. Let parents, teach- 
ers, and invalids be sure to furnish for themselves, and for 
those under their guardianship, the purest air that circulates 
about them. Many a cheek will look fairer, and many a 
heart will beat fuller and freer, if all will attend to this 
salutary oaution. 


Man may see and hear, and read and learn, whatever he 
pleases, and as much as he pleases — he will never know any 
thing, except that which he has thought over; that which, 
by thinking, he has made the property of his mind. Man, 
by thinking only, becomes truly man. Take away thought 
from man's life, and what remains ? 


1. " Fret not thyself," says the Psalmist. Mankind have 
B great proneness to fret. Their business does not prosper ; 


customers do not pay promptly; competition is sharp; friends 
prove treacherous; malice and envy hurl their shafts; domes- 
tic affairs go contrariwise ; the wicked seem to prosper, 
while the righteous arc abased. In every lot there is ample 
material of which to make a goad, that may pierce and 
rankle in our souls, if we are only so disposed. Disease i.s 
ocictimes acute — coming on suddenly in the midst of 
health, raging violently through the system, causing fever 
and racking pains. So with fretting. At times it overtakes 
the constitutionally patient and gentle. Strong provocatii os 
assail them unawares, throw them off their guard, and cause 
in overflow of spleen. 

2. Diseases, however, often assume the chronic type, he- 
coming imbedded in the system, deranging its organs, inter- 
fering with the performance of the natural and healthful 
functions, and lingering, year after year, like a vampire, to 
extract the vital juices. In like manner fretting becomes 
chronic. Peevishness, irritability, censoriousness, and com- 
plaining, indulged in, assume a habit. It argues a sadly 
diseased condition of the soul, when this distemper of fret- 
fulness becomes one of its fixtures. To such an one evory 
thing goes wrong. The whole mechanism of society is 
thrown out of gear ; and instead of moving smoothly, as 
when lubricated by the oil of kindness and charity, its co^tt 
slash, and its pivots all grate harshly. 


1. Something ever doth impress us 

With a sense of right or wrong ; 
Something waiteth still to bless us, 

As we journey life along; 
Something viewless whispers to us 

Words of hope and promise sure ; 
Voices speak prophetic through us, 

Of a life that shall endure I 

2» There's a silent, voiceless teacher, 
Striving with the human will ; 


Unto each weak, earth-born creature 

Wisdom's letters doth instill : 
Heed them, better grow and wiser 

They will soften life's hot fray ; 
Duty make your stern adviser, 

Aim to reach the perfect day. 

1 Trust the high hopes that impel us, 

And inspire our firm belief — 
They alone can well fortell us, 

Human works how frail and brief: 
Trust the God that reigns above us. 

Faithful to his precepts be, 
He will guide, and guard, and love us, 

Through a blest eternity. 

4. Heed the heavenly aspirations 

That imbue with hope the soul ; 
Mark the glorious life-creations 

Flowing in without control: 
See in all things truth and beauty, 

Love o'erflowing from the skies; 
Exercising Faith and Duty, 

Earth would be a paradise. neal oernabU 


Dare nobly then ; but, conscious of your trust, 
As ever warm and bold, be ever just ; 
Nor court applause in these degenerate days — 
The villain's censure is extorted praise. 

But chief, be steady in a noble end, 
And show mankind that truth has yet a friend. 
'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write, 
^8 foplings grin to show their teeth are white; 
To brand a doubtful folly with a smile. 
Or madly blaze unknown defects, is' vile: 
'Tig doubly vile, when, but to prove your art, 
Tou fix an arrow in a blameless heart. p<Pit 

3. — WORK. 

Work with your hands, work with your mind. 
Just as your nature has fitly designed ; 
Build ye a temple, hew out a stone. 
Do ye a work, just to call it your own. 


^^ I le oat a thought — to lighten the labor 

Of that one who reads, it may be your neighbor. 

Work, as each duy haptens away, 

Bearing along tlic bright and the gay ; 

Live out a life of excellent worth, 

Having bestowed on the source of your birth 

Qariandfl in works, to brigliten the earth! 


LXi. \-.\Kii;iii:>-. 


1. That conversation may answer the ends for whicli it 
is designed, the parties wIk' "*-'^ *-> join in it mutit couic 
together with a determine io/i to please and be 
pleased. As the end of the conversation is either to amuse 
or instruct the coinnaiiy, or to receive benefit from it, you 
should not be intenupi ntlicis. or uneasy at being 
yourself iutcrriM !■ m. 

2. (Jive every uiie leave .^ in liis turn, hear with 
patience, and answer with precision. Inattention is ill man- 
ners, and shows contempt, and contempt is never forgotten. 

3. Trouble not the company with your own private con 
jerns. Yours are as little to them as theirs are to you. 
Contrive, but with dexterity and propriety, that each per- 
son shall have an opportunity of discoursing on the subject 
with which he is best acquainted ; thus, he will be pleased, 
and you will be informed. When the conversation is flow- 
ing i^ a serious and useful channel, never disturb it by an 
ill-timed jest. 

4. In remarks on absent people, say nothing that you 
would not say if they were present. " I resolve," says 
Bishop Beveridge, *' never to speak of a man's virtues be- 
fore his face, nor of his faults behind his back." This is a 
golden rule, the observance of which would, at one stroke, 
banish flattery and defamation from the earth. 


1. Good sense will preserve us from censoriousness, will 
lead us to distinguish circumstances, keep us from looking 


tfter visionary perfection, and make us see things in their 
proper light. It will lead us to study dispositions, pecu 
liaritics, accommodations; to weigh consequences ; to deter- 
mine what to observe, and what to pass by; when to be 
immovable, and when to yield. 

2. Good sense will produce good manners, keep us from 
'jiking freedoms, and handling things roughly ; will never 
agitate claims of superiority, but teach us to submit our- 
selves one to another. Good sense will lead persons to 
regard their own duties, rather than to recommend those 
of others. 


1. Heed not the idle assertion that literary pursuits will 
disqualify you for the active business of life. Point out to 
those who make it, the illustrious characters who have reaped, 
in every age, the highest honors of studious and active exer- 
tion. Show them Demosthenes, forging, by the light of the 
midnight lamp, those thunderbolts of eloquence, which 

" Shook the arsenal, fulmincd over Greece, 
To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne." 

2. Ask them if Cicero would have been hailed with rap- 
ture as the father of his country, if he had not been its 
pride and pattern in philosophy and letters. Inquire whe 
ther Caesar, or Frederick, or Bonaparte, or Wellington, or 
Washington, fought the worse because they knew how to 
write their own commentaries. Remind them of Franklin, 
tearing at the same time the lightning from heaven and the 
scepter from the hands of the oppressors. 

3. Do they say to you that study will lead you to skcpti* 
eism? Recall to their memory the venerable names of Ba 
con, Milton, Newton, and Locke. Would they persuade you 
that devotion to learning will withdraw your steps from the 
paths of pleasure? Tell them they are mistaken. Tell them 
that the only true pleasures are those which result from the 
diligent exorcise of all the faculties of body, and mind, and 
heart, in pursuit of noble ends by noble means. 

KiDD.— 17 

194 EL0CUT1U17. 

4. Ecpeat to tlicia the ancient apologue of the youthful 
Hercules, in the pride of strength and beauty, giving up hia 
generous soul to the worship of virtue. Tell them your 
choice is also made. Tell them, with the illustrious Roman 
orator, you would rather be in the wrong with Plato, than 
in the right with Epicurus. Tell them that a mother in 
Sparta would have rather seen her son brought home from 
battle a corpse upon his shield, than dishonored by its loss. 
Tell them that your mother is America, your battle the war- 
faro of lips, your shield the breastplate of Religion. 



1. Examples of greatness and goodness before us, bid us 
work, and the changing present oflfers ample opportunity. 
Around us, every where, the new crowds aside the old. Im- 
provement steps by seeming perfection. Discovery upsets 
theories and clouds over established systems. The usages 
of one generation become matters of tradition, for the amuse- 
ment of the next. Innovation rises on the site of homes 
reverenced for early associations. Science can scarcely keep 
pace with the names of publications qualifying or abrogat- 
ing the past. Machinery becomes old iron, as its upstart 
successor usurps its place. 

2. The new ship dashes scornfully by the naval prodigy 
of last year, and the steamer laughs at them both. The 
railroad engine, as it rushes by the crumbling banks of 
the canal, screams out its mockery at the barge rotting 
piecemeal. The astronomer builds up his hypothesis, and 
is comforting himself among the nebulae, when invention 
comes to the rescue ; the gigantic telescope points upward, 
tnd lo I the raw material of which worlds are manufactured 
becomes the centers of systems, blazing in the infinite 
heavens, and the defeated theorizer retreats into space, with 
his speculations, to be again routed, when human ingenuity 
shall admit us one hair-breadth further into creation. 

3. There is no effort of science or art that may not be 
exceeded ; no depth of philosophy that can not be deeper 


sounded ; no flight of imagination that may not be passed 
by strong and soaring wing. All nature is full of unknown 
things — earth, air, water, the fathomless ocean, the limitless 
sky, lie almost untouched before us. What has hitherto 
given prosperity and distinction, has not been more open 
to others than to us ; to no one, past or present, more than 
to the student going forth from the school-room to-morrow. 
4. Let not, then, the young man sit with folded handS; 
calling on Hercules. Thine own arm is the demigod. It 
was given thee to help thyself. Go forth into the world 
trustful, but fearless. Exalt thine adopted calling or pro- 
fession. Lobk on labor as honorable, and dignify the task 
before thee, whether it be in the study, office, counting-room, 
workshop, or furrowed field. There is an equality in all, 
and the resolute will and pure heart may ennoble either. 



1. "Now WHAT did you do that for? Suppose he should 
buy rum with it?" 

2. To this querulous exclamation, the beautiful woman, 
who bad. just given a bit of silver to a poor beggar, replied, 
"if we are to suppose anything, why not suppose good?" 

3. Noble answer! Why suppose because your neighbor 
has a row of fine houses, and you have remained poor, though 
starting in life with him, that he has obtained his wealth bj 
fraud and evil doing? if you arc going to suppose at all, whj 
not suppose good ? Why not suppose that he had mere ma- 
ture judgment, a happier faculty of turnin^r knowlcdp;c tr, 
account — why not suppose good? 

4. Why suppose, because a girl, in the exuberance wf 
youth and animal spirits, gives way to childish impulses of 
mirth, that she is bold, forward and presuming; that she ift 
in danger of losing delicacy and reputation ? 

5. It is dastardly to suppose evil ; what docs the word 
mean? ''suspicion without proof; to lay down or state as a 
proposition or fact that may exist or be true, though not 
>cnown to be true or exist." 


r>. HoW more than insufferably mean it is then, in suppos 
ing wrong motives to regulate the conduct of those around 
us, and yet how prone to the sin is the majority of man- 
kind t MRS. DENISON. 


1. A SPIDER, that began to feel 
Those cravings for a dainty meal. 
Which always urge the spider brood 
To deeds of perfidy and blood, 

Vowed that he would commence his labors, 
And cheat and grind his simple neighbors. 
So, sallying forth, prepared to weave 
A web, well fashioned to deceive, 
With wondrous skill, he soon completed 
His silken snare, and then retreated. 

2. Ere long, a little thoughtless fly, 
Devoid of guile, came buzzing by ; 
And, curious to behold a work 

In which no danger seemed to lurk. 
It touched the treacherous web, and found 
Its limbs in toils, its pinions bound; 
The spider, warned of what had passed, 
Came from his nook, and nimbly cast 
One thread around his dupe, and then 
With haste retreated to his den. 
Well pleased, exulting at the thought 
Of the vile deed his scheme had wrought. 

3. Again, and yet again, intent 
Upon his prey, he came and went, 
Each time remembering to throw o'er 
His helpless victim one thread more; 
Until, at last, when, tightly chained, 

He showed that nought of strength remained, 
The hapless captive, overpowered. 
Was by his ruffian foe devoured. 

4. Hence warned, both old and young may learn 
The path of safety to discern ; 

That none but those who stand aloof 
From haunts where Satan weaves his woof. 


And view intemperance as the breath 
Of pestilence, disease, and death, 
Are truly safe. 

5. Oh, then, beware; 

Resist the tempter; flee the snare- 
Remember that, with every glass 
The tippler takes, a web will pass 
Around his soul, until, at length. 
Robbed of his wits, deprived of strength, 
Ue'U sink, the scorn of every tongue, 

"Unwept, unhonored and unsung." 

6. When will mankind together band, 
To drive intemperance from the land ? 
IIow long shall " brother war with brother," 
And injure and destroy each other. 
Contemn the law, all right defy. 

And play the spider and the fly? 


1. In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed 
to Drydcn, whose education was more scholastic, and who, 
before he became an author, had been allowed more time for 
study, with better means of information. His mind has a 
larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations 
from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden 
knew more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his 
local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by 
comprehensive speculation ; those of Pope by minute atten- 
tion. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden 
and more certainty in that of Pope. 

2. Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for boil 
excelled likewise in prose : but Pope did not borrow hii 
prose from his predecessor. The style of Dryden is capri- 
cious and varied ; that of Pope is cautious and uniform 
Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind ; Pope con- 
strains his mind to hi.s own rules of composition. Dryden 
is sometimes vehement and rapid ; Pope is always smooth, 
aniform, and gentle. Drydcn*s page is a natural field, rising 


into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exuberance of 
abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the 
scythe, and leveled by the roller. 

3. Of genius — that power which constitutes a poet, that 
quality without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is 
inert, that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and 
animates — the superiority must, with some hesitation, be 
allowed to Dryden. It is not to bo inferred, that of thia 
poetical vigor Pope had only a little, because Dryden had 
more : for every other writer since Milton must give place 
to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be said that if he has 
brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. 

4. Dryden's performances were always hasty — either ex- 
cited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic 
necessity ; he composed without consideration, and pub- 
lished without correction. What his mind could supply at 
call, or gather at one excursion, was all that he sought, and 
all that he gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him 
to condense his sentiments, to multiply his images, and to 
accumulate all that study might produce, or chance might 
supply. If the flights of Dryden, therefore, are higher, Pope 
continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the blaze 
is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. 
Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls 
below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and 
Pope with perpetual dblight. 



1. Heaven from all creatures hides the book A Fate, 
All but the page prescribed, their present state: 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know * 
Or who could suffer Being here below? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food. 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
Oh, blindness to the future ! kindly given, 
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven: 


Who Bees with equal eye, as Qod of all. 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

2. Hope humbly, then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 
Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know. 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never Is, but always To bo blest : 
Tlie soul, uneasy, and confined from home, 
Rests ^nd expatiates in a life to come. 

3 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
His soul, proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or Milky Way ; 
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-capt hill, a humbler heaven ; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
Some happier island in the watery waste. 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire ; 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
Hi^ faithful dog shall bear him company. 

4. Go, wiser thou I and in thy scale of sense 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 

Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such. 
Say, here he gives too little, there too much: 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust. 
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust; 
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care. 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there : 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the fc4, 
Re-judge his justice, bo the God of God. 

5. In pride, in reasoning pride, our error liat; 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skieo. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes — 

Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 


Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell. 

Aspiring to be angeb, men rebel : 

And who but wishes to invert the laws 

Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause popc. 


1. It is unquestionably to be wished, that he who devotei 
niaself to the arduous labor which preaching requires, 
should bo wholly ambitious to render himself useful to the 
cause of religion. To such, reputation can never be a suffi- 
cient recompense. But if motives so pure have not sufficient 
sway in your breast, calculate, at least, the advantages of 
self-love, and you may perceive how inseparably connected 
these are with the success of your ministry. 

2. Is it on your own account that you preach ? Is it for 
you that religion assembles her votaries in a temple ? You 
ought never to indulge so presumptuous a thought. How- 
ever, I only consider you as an orator. Tell me, then, what 
is this you call eloquence? Is it the wretched trade of 
imitating that criminal, mentioned by a poet in his satires, 
who " balanced his crimes before his judges with anti- 

3. Is it the puerile secret of forming jejune quibbles? of 
rounding periods? of tormenting one's self by tedious stu- 
dies, in order to reduce sacred instruction into a vain amuse- 
ment? Is this, then, the idea which you have conceived of 
that divine art which disdains frivolous ornaments — which 
sways the most numerous assemblies, and which bestows on 
a single man the most personal and majestic of all sove- 
reignties ? Are you in quest of glory ? You fly from it. 
Wit alone is never sublime ; and it is only by the vehe 
mence of the passions that you can become eloquent. 

4. Reckon up all the illustrious orators. Will you find 
among them conceited, subtle, or epigrammatic writers? 
No; these immortal men confined their attempts to aflfect 
and persuade; and their having been always simple, is that 
which will always render them great. How is this? You 
wish txj proceed in their footsteps, and you stoop to the 


degrading pretensions of a rhetorician ! And jou appear 
in the form of a mendicant, soliciting commendations from 
those very men who ought to tremble at your feet. Recover 
from this ignominy. Be eloquent by zeal, instead of being 
a mere declaimer through vanity. And be assured, that the 
most certain method of preaching well for yourself, is to 
J reach usefully to others. MAURY. 


1. The 9iystery of our being, and the mystery of our 
ceasing to be, acting upon intelligences that are forever 
striving to comprehend the enigma of themselves, lead by 
a natural process to a love for the ideal. The discovery of 
those truths which advance the human mind towards that 
point of knowledge to which all its secret longings tend, 
should excite a higher feeling than any mere creation of 
the fancy, how beautiful soever it may be. 

2. The phenomena of reality are more startling than the 
phantoms of the ideal. Truth is stranger than fiction. 
Surely many of the discoveries of science which relate to 
the combinations of matter, and exhibit results which we 
could not by any previous efi"orts of reasoning dare to reckon 
on, results which show the admirable balance of the forces 
of nature, and the might of their uncontrolled power, ex- 
hibit to our senses subjects for contemplation truly poetic 
in their character. 

3. We tremble when the thunder-cloud bursts in fury 
above our heads. The poet seizes on the terrors of the 
storm to add to the interest of his verse. Fancy paints a 
storm-king, and the genius of romance clothes his demons 
in lightnings, and they are heralded by thunders. Thcff 
wild imaginings have been the delight of mankind; then 
is subject for wonder in them; but is there any thing lesi 
wonderful in the well-authenticated fact, that the dew drop 
which glistens on the flower, or that the tear which trembles 
on the eye-lid, holds, locked in its transparent cell*, an 
amount of electric fire equal to that which is disch* ^vd 
during a storm from a thunder -cloud? 


4. In these studies of the effects which are continuallj 
presenting themselves to the observing eye, and of the phe- 
nomena of causes, as far as they are revealed by science in 
its search of the physical earth, it will be shown that be- 
neath the beautiful vesture of the external world thei*e 
exists, like its quickening soul, a pervading power, assum- 
ing the most varied aspects, giving to the whole its life and 
loveliness, and linking every portion of this material ma.«»i 
in a common bond with some great universal principle be- 
yond our knowledge. 

5. Whether by the improvement of the powers of the 
human mind, man will ever be enabled to embrace within 
his knowledge the laws which regulate these remote princi- 
ples, we are not sufficiently advanced in intelligence to de- 
termine. But if admitted even to a clear perception of the 
theoretical power which we regard as regulating the known 
forces, we must still see an unknown agency beyond us, 
which can only be referred to the Creator's will. 



1. l/nwary belles, 

Who, day by day, the fashionable round 
Of dissipation tread, stealing from art 
The blush Eliza owns, to hide a cheek 
Pale and deserted ; come, and learn of me 
How to be ever blooming, young and fair. 
Give to the mind improvement. Let the tongue 
Be subject to the heart and head. AVithdraw 
From city smoke, and trip with agile foot. 
Oft as the day begins, the steepy down 
Or velvet lawn, earning the bread you eat 

2. Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed 
The breath of night's destructive to the hue 

Of ev'ry flower that blows. Go ^o the field, 
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps 
Soon as the sun departs? "Why close the eyes 
Of blossoms infinite, long ere the moon 
Her oriental vail puts off? 


Nor let the sweetest blossom nature boasts 
Be thus exposed to night's unkindly damp. 
Well may it droop, and all its freshness lose, 
Compelled to tnste the rank and poisonous steam 
Of midnight theater, and morning ball. 
Give to repose the solemn hour she claims, 
And from the forehead of the morning, steal 
The sweet occasion. 

3. Oh, there is a charm 
Which morning has, that gives the brow of age 
A smack of youth, and makes the life of youth 
Shed perfumes exquisite. Expect it not. 
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie, 
Indulging feverous sleep— a wakeful dream, 
Of happiness, no mortal heart has felt 
But in the regions of Romance. Ye fair, 
Like you, it must be wooed, or never won ; 
And, being lost, it is in vain ye ask 
For milk of roses, and Olympian dew. 
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford 
The faded features to restore: no chain. 
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant, 
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will. 


1. It is absolutely necessary for the orator to keep one 
man in view amidst the multitude that surround him ; and, 
while composing, to address himself to that one man whose 
mistakes he laments, and whose foibles he discovers. This 
man is to him as the genius of Socrates, standing continu- 
ally at his side, and by turns interrogating him, or answer- 
ing his questions. This is he whom the orator ought never 
to lose sight of in writing, till he obtain a conquest ovei 
his prepossessions. The arguments which will be suffi- 
ciently persuasive to overcome his opposition, will equallj 
control a large assembly. 

2. The orator will derive still farther advantages from a 
numerous concourse of people, where all the impressions 
made at the time will convey the finest triumphs of the 


art, by forming a species of action and rciiction between tho 
auditory and the speaker. It is in thi8 sense that Cicero in 
right in saying, "That no man can be eloquent without a 
multitude to hear him." 

3. The auditor came to hear a discourse; the orator at 
tacks him, accuses him, makes him abashed; addresses him 
at one time as his confidant, at another as his mediator or 
his judge. See with what address he unvails his most con- 
cealed passions; with what penetration he shows him his 
most intimate thoughts ; with what energy he annihilates 
his best framed excuses I The culprit repents. Profound 
attention, consternation, confusion, remorse, all announce 
that the orator has penetrated, in his retired meditations, 
into the recesses of the heart. Then, provided no ill-timed 
sally of wit follow to blunt the strokes of Christian elo- 
quence, there may be in the church two thousand auditors, 
yet there will be but one thought, but one opinion; and all 
those individuals united, form that ideal man whom the ora- 
tor had in view while composing his discourse. 

4. But, you may ask, where is this ideal man, composed 
of so many different traits, to be found, unless we describe 
some chimerical being ? Where shall we find a phantom 
like this, singular but not outr^, in which every individual 
may recognize himself, although it resembles not any one ? 
Where shall we find him ? In your own heart. Often re- 
tire there. Survey all its recesses. There you will trace 
both the pleas for those passions which you will have to 
combat, and the source of those false reasonings which you 
must point out. To be eloquent we must enter within our- 
selves. The first productions of a young orator are gener- 
ally too far fetched. His mind, always on the stretch, is 
making continual efforts, without his ever venturing to com 
mit himself to the simplicity of nature, until experiencf 
leaches hira that, to arrive at the sublime, it is, in fact, less 
necessary to elevate his imagination, than to be deeply im 
pressed with his subject. 

5. If you have studied the sacred books; if you have 
observed men ; if you have attended to writers on morals, 
who serve you instead of historians; if you have become 


ramiliar with the language of orators, make trial of youi 
eloquence upon yourself, become, so to speak, the auditor of 
your own discourses; and thus, by anticipating the effect 
which they ou*:ht to produce, you will easily delineate true 
characters ; you will perceive that, notwithstanding the 
shades of difference which distinguish them, all men bear 
in interior resemblance to one another, and that their vices 
have a uniformity, because they always proceed either from 
weakn3ss or interest. In a word, your descriptions will not 
be indeterminate ; and the more thoroughly you shall have 
examined, what passes within your own breast, with more 
ability will you unfold the hearts of others. 



1. Spukc full well, in language quaint and olden, 

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
When .he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

2. Stars they arc, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 
Like the burning stars which they beheld. 

3. Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 

Ood hath written in those stars above; 
But not less in the bright flow'rets under us 
Stands the revelation of Ilis love. 

4. Bright and glorious is that revelation. 

Written all over this great world of ours, 
Making evident our own creation, 

In these stars of earth — these golden flowers. 

5. And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, 

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 
Of the self-same universal Being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart 

6. Gorgeous flowers in the sunlight shining. 

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day ; 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to deMj • 

20G ELOCLliuN. 

7. Hrilliaiit hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 

Kliuinting gaily in the golden light; 
]/ir^'<« tlesires, with most uncertain issues, 
Tt-iuler wishes, blossoming at night! 

8. These in flowers and men are more than seeming; 

Workings are they of the self-same Power, 
Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flower. 

9. Every where about us are they glowing, 

Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is bom ; 
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing. 
Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn. 

10. Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 

And in Summer's green-emblazoned field. 
But in arms of brare old Autumn's wearing, 
In the center of his brazen shield ; 

1 1 Not alone in meadows and green alleys. 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink' 
Of sequestered pools in woodland vaileys, 
Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 

12. Not alone in her rast dome of glory, 

Not on graves of bird and beast Mone, 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

13. In the cottage of the .rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient games of flowers; 

14. In all places, then, and in all seasons, 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wiugs. 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human thii^«. 

15. And with childlike, credulous affevdon, 

We behold their tender buds expand ; 
Emblems of our own' great resurrection, 
Emblems of "the bright and better land." 





1. Sura is the intrinsic excellence of Christianity that \\ 
is adapted to the wants of all, and it provides for all, not onlj 
by its precepts and by its doctrines, but also by its evidence. 

2. The poor man may know nothing of history, or sci- 
ence, or phrlosophyj he may have read scarcely any book 
but the Bible ; he may bo totally unable to vanquish the 
skeptic in the arena of public debate ; but he is nevertheless 
surrounded by a panoply which the shafts of infidelity can 
never pierce. 

3. You may go to the home of the poor cottager, whose 
heart is deeply imbued with the spirit of vital Christianity ; 
you may see him gather his little family around him : he 
expounds to them the wholesome doctrines and principles 
of the Bible, and if they want to know the evidence upon 
which he rests his faith, of the divine origin of his religion, 
he can tell them upon reading the book which teaches Chris- 
tianity, he finds not only a perfectly true description of his 
own natural character, but in the provisions of this religion 
i perfect adaptation to all his needs. 

4. It is a religion by which to live — a religion by which 
to die; a religion which cheers in darkness, relieves i« per 
plexity, supports in adversity, keeps stcadfiist in ^osperity, 
and guides the inquirer to that blessed land where " the 
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." 

5. We entreat you, therefore, to give the Bible a wel- 
come — a cordial reception ; obey its precepts, trust its prom 
ises, and rely implicitly upon that Divine Kedeemcr, whosi 
religion brings glory to God in the highest, and on earth, 
peace and good will to men. 

<). Thus will you fulfill the noble end of your existence, 
and the great God of the universe will be your father and 
your friend; and when the last mighty convulsion shall 
Hhakc the earth, and the sea, and the sky, and the fragments 


of a thousand barks, richly freighted with intellect ano 
learning, are scattered on the shores of error and delusion 
your vessel shall in safety outride the storm and enter in 
triumph the haven of eternal rest. edw. wintorop. 


1. — MT mother's bible. 

1. This book is all that's left me now! 

Tears will unbidden start; 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 

I press it to my heart 
For many generations post, 

Here is our family tree: 
My mother's hands this Bible clasped ; 

She, dying, gave it me. 

2. Ah : wtll Jo I remember those 

Whose names these records bear, 
Who round the hearth-stone used to cloe6» 

After the evening prayer ; 
And speak of what these pages said, 

In tones my heart would thrill ! 
Though they are with the silent dead, 

Here are they living still. 

3. My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters, dear; 
How calm was my dear mother's look, 
• Who loved ! to hear. 

Her aged face — i yet, 

As thronging memories come ! 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

4. Thou truest friend man ever knew. 

Thy constancy I've tried; 
When all were false I found thee true, 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of ^arth no treasure give 

That could this volume buy: 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It tuuirht me how to die. g. p. horsis 



1. Tarry with me, my Savior ! 
For the day is passing by ; 
See ! the shades of evrning gather, 
And the night is drawing nigh: 
Tarry with me! tarry with me! 
Pass me not unheeded by. 

2 Many friends were gathered round me. 
In the bright days of the past; 
Bijt the grave has closed above them, 

And I linger here the last: 
I am lonely, tarry with me 
Till the dreary night is past. 

3. Dimmed for me is earthly beauty ; 

Yet the spirit's eye would fain 
Rest upon thy lovely features; 

Shall I seek, dear Lord, in vain? 
Tarry with me, my Savior, 

Let me see thy smile again! 

4. Dull my ear to earth-born music ; 

Speak thou, Lord, in words of cheer ; 
Feeble, tottering my footsteps. 

Sinks my heart with sudden fear; 
Cast thine arms, dear Lord, around me 

Let me feel thy presence near. 


1. Tqe light of nature, the works of creation, the genera' 
consent of nations, in harmony with divine revelation, at' 
test the being, the perfections, and the providence of God 
Whatever cause we have to lament the frequent inconsis 
tency of human conduct, with this belief, yet an avowed 
atheist is a monster, that rarely makes his appearance 
God's government of the affairs of the universe, an acknowl- 
edgment of his active, superintending providence, over that 
portion of it, which constitutes the globe we inhabit, is re- 
jected, at least theoretically, by very few. 
Kii.n 1^ 


2. That a superior, invisible power tiuuallj em- 
ployed in managing and controlling by soeret, impercep- 
tible, irresistible means, all the transactions of the world, is 
80 often manifested in the disappointment, as well as in the 
success of our plans, that blind and depraved must our minds 
be, to deny what every day's transactions so fully prove. 
The excellence of the divine character, especially in the ex- 
ercise of that goodness toward his creatures, which is seen 
in the dispensation of their daily benefits, and in overruling 
occurring event.'^, ' <• increase of their happiness, is 
equally obvious. 

3. Do we desire evidence of these things i* Who is with- 
out them, in the experience of his own life ? Who has 
not reason, to thank God for the success, which has at- 
tended his exertions in the world? Who has not reason 
to thank him, for defeating plans, the accomplishment of 
which, it has been afterward seen, would have resulted in 
injury or ruin? Who has not cause, to present him the 
unaffected homage of a grateful heart, for the consequences 
of events, apparently the most unpropitious, and for his 
unquestionable kindness, in the daily supply of needful 
mercies ? 


" No snow ttlU lighter than the soow of kge ; but none ia heavier, for it never 

1, The figure is by no means novel, but the closing part 
of the sentence is new as well as emphatic. The Scripture 
represents age by the almond tree, which bears blossoms 
of the purest white. " The almond tree shall flourish " — 
the head shall be hoary. Dickens says of one of his char- 
acters whose hair was turning gray, that it looked as if 
Time had lightly splashed his snows upon it in passing. 

2. " It never melts" — no, never. Age is inexorable, lit 
wheels must move onward — they know no retrograde move- 
ment. The old man may sit and sing, <' I would I were a 
boy again " — but he grows older as he sings. He may read 
of the elixir of youth, but he can not find it; he may sigh 
for the secrets of that alchemy which is able to make him 
young again, but sighing brings it not. He may gaze back 


ward with an eye of longing upon the rosy schomes of early 
years ; but, as one who gazes on his home from the deck 
of a departing ship, every moment carries him farther and 
farther away. Poor old man ! he has little more to do 
than die. 

3. " It never melts." The snow of winter comes and 
ihcds its white blessings upon the valley and the mountain 
I jt soon the sweet Spring comes and smiles it all away 
Not so with that upon the brow of the tottering veteran. 
There is no Spring whose warmth can penetrate its eternal 
frost. It came to stay. Its single flakes fell unnoticed — 
and now it is drilled there. We shall see it increase until 
we lay the old man in his grave. There it shall be ab- 
sorbed by the eternal darkness — for there is no age in 

4. Yet why speak of age in a mournful strain? It is 
beautiful, honorable, eloquent. Should we sigh at the prox- 
imity of death, when life and the world are so full of empti- 
ness? Let the old exult because they are old — if any must 
weep, let it be the young, at the long succession of cares 
that are before them. Welcome the snow, for it is the em- 
blem of peace and of rest. It is but a temporal crown which 
shall fall at the gates of Paradise, to be replaced by -^ brightei 
<ind a better. 


1. When' all is known, the darkest fate 
The smitten heart may learn to bear, 
And feci, when time can not abate, 
The settled calmness of despair ; 
But who can well endure the grief— 
Which knows no refuge or defense. 
That a;:e of pain, in moments brief — 
The untold anguifth of suspense 1 

'1. When once the first rude shock is past 
Tlio hcait may still the storm outride, 
A.s. from the wreck around it cast. 
It finds support to breast the tide ; 


But thus to linger day by day, 
A prey to that tureboding sense 
Which gives a pang to each delay, 
And agonizes with suspense! 

3. To feel an erer present dread 
Of some imperding, nameless ill, 

Is keener than the shaft, when sped, 
Which makes the wounded bosom thrilL 
Then let me know the worst of fate. 
Though it may rend with pangs intense. 
For sure no pangs were e'er so great 
As are the tortures of suspense. 

4. And yet, the soul that trusts in God 
Can find a balm for every woe. 

Since His own hand upholds the rod. 
And mercy tempers every blow; 
O then, my soul, be strong in trust — 
Whatever fate lie may dispense. 
Although the swelling heart may burst, 
While agonizing in suspense. 



1. It was the telescope that, by piercing the obscurity 
which lies between us and distant worlds, put infidelity in 
possession of the argument against which we are now con- 
tending; but, about the time of its invention, another in- 
strument was formed, which laid open a scene no less won- 
derful, and rewarded the inquisitive spirit of man with a 
discovery, which serves to neutralize the whole of this argu- 
ment. This was the microscope. The one led me to a sys- 
tem in every star — the othor leads me t3 see a world in 
every atom. 

2. The one taught me that this mighty globe, with tha 
rhole burden of its people and of its countries, is but a 
grain of sand on the high field of in.mensity — the other 
teaches me that every grain of sand may harbor within it 
the tribes and families of a busy population. The one told 
me of the magnificence of the world I tread upon — the other 


redeems it from all its insignificance ; for it tells mc that in 
the leaves of every forest, and in the flowers of every gar- 
den, and in the waters of every rivulet, there are worlds 
teeming with life, and numberless as are the glories of the 

3. The one has suggested to me, that beyond and above 
all that is visible to man, there may lie fields of creation 
which sweep immeasurably along, and carry the impress 
of the Almighty's hand to the remotest scenes of the uni- 
verse — the other suggests to me, that within and beneath all 
that minuteness which the aided eye of man has been able 
to explore, there may lie a region of invisibles ; and that, 
could we draw aside the mysterious curtain which shrouds 
it from our senses, we might there see a theater of as many 
wonders as astronomy has unfolded, a universe within the 
compass of a point so small, as to elude all the powers of 
the microscope, but where the wonder-working God finds 
room for the exercise of all His attributes, where He can 
raise another mechanism of worlds, and fill and animate 
them all with the evidences of his glory. 

4. Now, mark how all this may be made to meet the ar- 
gument of our infidel astronomers. By the telescope, they 
have discovered that no magnitude, however vast, is beyond 
the grasp of the Divinity ; but by the microscope, we have 
also discovered, that no minuteness, however shrunk from 
the notice of the human eye, is beneath the condescension 
of His regard. Every addition to the powers of the one in- 
strument extends the limit of His visible dominions ; but, 
by every addition of the powers of the other instrument, we 
see each part of them more crowded than before with the 
wonders of His unwearying hand. The one is constantly 
widening the circle of His territory — the other is as con- 
■tantly filling up its separate portions with all that is rich, 
ftod various, and exquisite. In a word, by the one I am 
told that the Almighty is now at work in regions more dis- 
tant than geometry has ever measured, and among worlds 
more manifold than numbers have ever reached; but, by 
the other, [ am also told, that with a mind to comprehend 
the whoU, in the vast compass of its generality, He has also 


a mind to concentrate a close and a separate attention on 
each and on all of its particulars ; and that the same God, 
who sends forth an upholding influence among the orbs and 
the movements of astronomy, can fill the recesses of every 
single atom with the intimacy of His presence, and travel, 
in all the greatness of His unimpaired attributes, upon every 
one spot and corner of the universe He has formed. 

5. They, therefore, who think that God will not put forth 
6uch a power, and such a goodness, and such a condescen- 
sion, in behalf of this world, as are ascribed to Him in the 
New Testament, because He has so many other worlds to at- 
tend to, think of Him as a man. They confine their view 
to the informations of the telescope, and forget altogether 
the informations of the other instrument. They only find 
room in their minds for His one attribute of a large and gen- 
eral superintendence; and keep out of their remembrance 
the equally impressive proofs we have for His other attri- 
bute, of a minute and multiplied attention to all that diver- 
sity of operations, where it is He that workcth all in all. 

6. And when I think, that as one of the instruments of 
philosophy has hightened our every impression of the first of 
these attributes, so another instrument has no less hightened 
our impression of the second of them — then I can no longer 
resist the conclusion, that it would be a transgression of sound 
argument, as well as a daring of impiety, to draw a limit 
around the doings of this unsearchable God — and, should a 
professed revelation from heaven tell me of an act of con- 
descension, in behalf of some separate world, so wonderful, 
that angels desire to look into it, and the Eternal Son had 
to move from His seat of glory to carry it into accomplish- 
ment, all I ask is the evidence of such a revelation ; for, let 
it tell me as much as it may of God letting himself down for 
the benefit of one single province of His dominions, this is 
no more than what I see lying scattered, in numberless ex- 
amples, before me; and running through the whole line of 
my recollections; and meeting me in every walk of observa- 
tion to which I can betake myself; and, now that the mi 
croscope has un vailed the wonders of another region, I see 
strewed around me. with a profusion which baffles my everv 


ittempt to comprehend it, the evidence that there is no one 
portion of the universe of God too minute for His notice, 
nor too humble for the visitations of His care. 



1. TnERE is an unseen battle-field 

In every human breast, 
Where two opposing forces meet, 
But where they seldom rest. 

2. That field is vailed from mortal sight, 

'T is only seen by One 
Who knows alone where victory lies, 
When each day's bght is done. 

3. One army clusters strong and fierce, 

Their chief of demon form -, 
His brow is like the thunder-cloud, 
Ilis voice the bursting storm, 

4. His captains, Pride, and Lust, and Hate, 

Whose troops watch night and day, 
Swift to detect the weakest point. 
And thirsting for the fray. 

5. Contending with this mighty force 

Is but a little band ; 
Yet there, with an unquailing front, 
Those warriors firmly standi 

6. Their leader is a God-like form. 

Of countenance serene ; 
And glowing on his naked breast 
A simple cross is seen. 

7. His captains, Faith, and Hope, and lion, 

Point to that wondrous sign; 
And, gazing on it, all receive 
Strength from a Source divine. 

8. They feel it speak a glorious truth 

A truth as great as sure, 
That to be victors they must learn 
To love, confide, endure. 


9. That faith sublime in wildest strife, 
Imparts a hulj calm; 
For every deadly blow a shield, 
For every wound a balm. 

10. And when they win that battle-field, 

Past toil is quite forgot ; 
The plain where carnage once had reigned* 
Becomes a hallowed spot : 

11. A spot where flowers of joy and peace 

Spring from the fertile sod, 
And breathe the perfume of their praise 
On every breeze — to God. 


1. Kind and amiable people, your benevolence is most 
lovely in its display, but oh ! it is perishable in its conse- 
quences. Does it never occur to you that in a few years 
this favorite will die; and that he wiJl go to the place where 
neither cold nor hunger will reach nim ; but that a mighty 
interest remains, of which both of us may know the cer- 
tainty, though neither you nor I can calculate the extent? 
Your benevolence is too short: it does not shoot far 
enough ahead ; it is like regaling a child with a sweetmeat 
or a toy, and then abandoning the happy, unreflecting infant 
to exposure. 

2. You make the poor old man happy with your crumbs 
and your fragments, but he is an infant on the mighty range 
of duration ; and wjll you leave the soul, which has the in- 
finity to go through, to its chance? IIow comes it that the 
grave should throw so impenetrable a shroud over the real • 
ities of eternity? how comes it that heaven, and hell, and 
judgment, should be treated as so many nonentities ; and 
that there should be as little real and operative sympathy 
felt for the soul which lives forever, as for the body after 
it is dead, or for the dust into which it molders ? Eternity 
i? longer than time ; the arithmetic, my brethren, is all on 


one Bide upon this question; and the wisdom which calon* 
lates, and guides itself by calculation, gives its weighty 
and respectable support to what may bo callea the benevo- 
lence of faith. Chalmers. 


1. However early in the morning you seek the gate of 
i:cess, you find it already open; and the midnight moment 
when you find yourself in the sudden arms of death, the 
winged prayer can bring an instant Savior near. And this 
wherever you are. It needs not that you ascend some 
special Pisgah or Moriah, It needs not that you should 
enter some awful shrine, or pull oiF your shoes on some 
holy ground. 

2. Could a memento be reared on every spot from which 
an acceptable prayer had passed away, and on which a 
prompt answer has come down, we should find Jehovah- 
shammah, ''the Lord hath been here," inscribed on many 
a cottage hearth, and many a dungeon floor. We should 
find it not only in Jerusalem's proud Temple, and David's 
cedar galleries, but in the fisherman's cottage by the brink 
of Genesareth and in the chamber where Pentecost began. 

3. Whether it be the field where Isaac went to meditate, 
or the rocky knoll where Jacob lay down to sleep, or the 
brook where Israel wrestled, or the den where Daniel gazed 
on lions and the lions gazed on him, on the hill-sides where 
the Man of sorrows prayed all night, we should still discern 
the prints of the ladder's feet let down from heaven — the 
landing-place of mercies, because the starting-point of prayer. 
And all this whatsoever you are. 

4. It needs no saints, no proficient in piety, no adept in 
eloquent language, no dignity of earthly rank. It needs 
but a blind beggar, a loathsome lazar. It needs but a 
penitent publican, or a dying thief. And it needs no sharp 
ordeal, no costly passport, no painful expiation, to bring 
you *to the mercy-seat. The Savior's merit — the name of 
Jesus, priceless as they are, cost the sinner nothing. They 
are freely put at his disposal, and instantly and constantly 
be may use of them. This access to God in every place, at 

KlDD— 19 

218 BLOC I 1 i ..> . 

every moment without any price or personal merit, is it 
not a privilege? james Hamilton. 


1. Tooc, who driest the mourner's tear. 

How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 
We could not fly to thee ! 

2. The friends who in our sunshine live. 

When winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give, 
Must weep those tears alone. 

3. But Thou wilt heal the broken heart. 

Which, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part. 
Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

4. When joy no longer soothes or cheers. 

And e'en the hope that threw 

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears. 

Is dimmed and vanished, too ! 

5. Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come brightly wafting through the gloom 
Our peace-branch from above I 

6. Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright 

With more then rapture's ray, 
As darkness shows us worlds of light, 
We never saw by day. moork 


1. WILD is the tempest, and dark is the night. 
But soon will tlie da3'break be dawning; 

Then the friendships of yore 

Shall blossom once more, 
"And we'll all meet again in the morning.'' 


-. All thou doomed in a far distant region to roam, 
To meet the cold gaze of the stranger ; 
Dost thuu 3'earn fur the smiles of the loved ones at home, 
While thuii pray'st God to shield them from danger? 
Ah! the hight of the waters may shadow my form, 
Yet soon will the daybreak be dawning ; 

And thou 'It mingle once more 

With the loved ones on shore — 
" For we '11 all meet again in the morning." 

3. Dost thou miss the sweet voice of a fond loving wife, 
Whose music brought balm to thy sorrow ; 

Didst thou see her decline in the sunset of life, 
Nor felt one bright hope for the morrow ? 
0, cheer up, dear brother! the night may be dark, 
Yet soon will the daybreak be dawning; 

Of all ties bereft, 

One hope is still left — 
"We'll all meet again in the morning." 

4. Art thou wearied, pilgrim, on life's desert waste; 
Dost thou sigh for the shade of the wild-wood ; 

Have the world's choicest fruits proved bitter to taste, 
And mocked all the dreams of thy childhood? 
0, cheer up, poor pilgrim, faint not on thy way. 
For soon will the daybreak bo dawning; 

Then the dreams which have fled. 

Shall arise from the dead — 
"And all will be bright in the morning 1" 

5. 0, servant of Christ! too heavy the cross, 
lias thy trust in thy Master been shaken? 

In doubt and in darkness thy faith has been lost. 
And thou cricst, "My God, I'm forsaken!" 
But cheer up, dear bruther ! the night can not last, 
And soon will the daybreak bo dawning; 

Then the trials of earth 

We have borne from our birth, 
"Will all l»e made right in tLo morning ! " 

u. CLAT raun 



1. Tell me, yo winged winda, 
That round my pathway roar, 
Do you not know some spot 
Where mortals weep no more? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 
Some valley in the west. 
Where, free from toil and pain, 
The weary soul may rest? 

The loud wind softened to a whisper low, 
And sighed for pity as it whispered — "No!" 

2. Tell me, thou mighty deep, 
Whose billows round me play, 
Know'st thou some favored spot, 
Some island far away. 

Where weary man may find 

The bliss for which ho sighs. 

Where sorrow never lives 

And friendship never dies? 
The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow, 
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer — "No I' 

3. And thou, serenest moon. 
That with such holy face 
Dost look upon the earth. 
Asleep in night's embrace, 
Tell me, in all thy round, 
Ilast thou not seen some spot. 
Where miserable man 
Might find a happier lot? 

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe. 
And a voice sweet, but sad, responded — " No 1" 

4. Tell me, my secret soul, 
O! tell me, llope and Faith, 
Is there no resting-place 
From sorrow, sin, and death? 
Is there no happy spot. 
Where mortals may be blest 
Where grief may find a balm, 
And weariness a rest? 

Faith, Ilcpe, and Love — best boons to mortals given — 

Waved their bright wings, and wluspered — "Yes I in heaven!" 




1. Ye many twinkling stars who yet do hold 
Your brilliant places in the sable vault 

Of night's dominion — planets, and central orbs 

Of other systems ; big as the burning sun 

Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye 

Small as the glow-worm's lamp! to you I raise 

My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered. 

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 

Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, 

"Warped with low prejudices, to unfold, 

And sagely comprehend — thence higher soaring — 

Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Ilim, 

The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, 

The great Creator 1 Him ! who now sublime, 

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 

Sits on His silent throne, and meditates. 

2. The angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven. 
Hymn to the golden harps His praise sublime, 
Repeating loud, "The Lord oui God is great l" 
In varied harmonies: tne glorious sounds 

Roll o'er tlie air serene : the iEolian spheres. 
Harping along their viewless boundaries, / 

Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great!" 
Responding to the seraphim. O'er all. 
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
Of the created world, the sound is borne. 
Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

3. Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear. 

And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares. 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss, 
Oh I what is man, when at ambition's hight — 
What even are kings, when balanced in the scaU 
Of these stupendous worlds ? Almighty God ! 
Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous work* I 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, 
Odo look of kind benevolence T — Thou canst ; 


r'or Thou art full of universal love, 
And in Thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, 
The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 

4. Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime. 
How insignitiuant du all the joys, 
The gauds and honors of the world appear ! 
How vain ambition I Wliy has my wakeful lamp 
Outwatched the slow-paced night? Why on the page 
The schoolman's labored page— have I emuloyed 
The hours devoted by tlie world to rest, 
And needful to recruit exhausted nature? 
Say ; can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory 
Send a new throb unto my languid heart, 
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow. 
Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye. 
Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek ? 



1. It is sufficiently evident that eloquence has a strong 
influence over the minds and passions of men. I do not 
call the attention of the reader to those compositions which 
filled Athens with valor, which agitated or calmed, at the 
will of the orator, the bosoms of a thousand warriors, and 
which all nations have consented to immortalize. The thun- 
der, which Demosthenes hurled at the head of Philip, con- 
tinues to roll to the present hour; and his eloquence, 
stripped as it is of action and utterance, mutilated by 
time, and enfeebled by translation, is yet powerful enough 
to kindle in our bosoms, at this remote age, a fire, which 
the hand of death has extinguished in the hearts of those 
who were originally addressed ! We pass over, also, the elo- 
quence which Cicero poured out, in a torrent so resistless, 
that the awful senate of Rome could not withstand its force; 
an eloquence that could break confederacies, disarm forces, 
control anarchy — an eloquence that years can not impair, 
tge can not weaken, time can not destroy ! 

2. But we appeal to its influence, in an age -?'^t very 


remote, nor very unlike the present, in a neighboring coun- 
try, in the ministerial profession. The name of Massillon 
was more attractive than all the perfumes that Arabia could 
furnish; and this was the incense that filled the churches 
of spiritual Babylon. The theater was forsaken, while the 
church was crowded ; the court forgot their amusements, to 
ittend the preacher; and his spirit-controlling accents drew 
the monarch from his throne to his feet, stopped the impet- 
uous stream of dissipation, and compelled the mockinc: world 
to listen ! 

3. This is not a picture delineated by fancy, but a repre- 
sentation of facts ; and it is well known that no fashionable 
amusements had attractions when the French bishop was to 
ascend the pulpit. While he spoke, the king trembled; 
while he denounced the indignation of God against a cor- 
rupted court, nobility shrunk into nothingness; while he 
described the horrors of a judgment to come, infidelity 
turned pale, and the congregation, unable to support the 
thunder of his language, rose from their seats in agony ! 
Let these instances suffice to show the power of eloquence, 
the influence which language, well chosen, has upon the 
mind of man, who alone, of all the creatures of God, is able 
to transmit his thoughts through the medium of speech, to 
know^ to relish, and to use the charms of language. 

4. I am well aware that an argument is deduced from the 
power of eloquence against the use of it in the pulpit. "It 
is liable to abuse," say they ; " it tends to impose upon the 
understanding, by fascinating the imagination." Most true, 
it is liable to abuse; and what is there so excellent in its 
nature that is not? The doctrines of grace have been abused 
to licentiousness; and the liberty of Christianity "used as a 
cloak of maliciousness." This, however, is no refutation of 
those doctrines, no argument against that liberty. Because 
eloquence has been abused, because it has served Anti-Christ, 
or rendered sin specious, is it, therefore, less excellent in 
itself? or* is it, for that reason, to be rejected from t^e sor- 
vice of holiness? No ; let it be employed in the service of 
God, and it is directed to its noblest ends; it answers th« 
best of purposes I 


5. " But the most eloquent are not always the most useful 
and God hath chosen the ignorant, in various instances, t« 
confound the wise." It is granted. But does God uni- 
formly work one way ? When he sends, it is by whom he 
will send ; and he can qualify, and does qualify those whom 
he raises up for himself. He can give powers as a substitute 
for literature, and by his own energy eflfect that which elo- 
quence alone can not. But we set not up this attainment 
against his energy; we know that it is useful only in depend- 
ence upon it. We know, too, why the ignorant are frequently 
exalted in the scale of usefulness, to show that *' the power is 
not of man, but of God;" and "that no flesh should glory in 
his presence." But has he not blessed talents also, for the 
same important purpose? Has he never employed eloquence 
usefully? Has his favor been uniformly limited, or ever 
limited to the illiterate? Because he sometimes works with 
out the means, and apparently in defiance of the means, are 
we therefore to lay them aside ? Who possessed more advan- 
tages, or more eloquence, than the apostle whose words are al- 
luded to in this objection ? Did Paul make a worse preacher 
for being brought up at the feet of Gamaliel ? 

6. But the gospel of Jesus disdains such assistance: for 
the apostle says to the Corinthians, "I came not to you with 
excellency of speech" — "and my speech, and my preaching, 
was not with enticing words of men's wisdom." That the 
gospel of Jesus disdains the assistance of eloquence, in a 
certain sense, I admit. It will not accept of any thing as 
its support. It stands upon its own inherent excellence, 
and spurns all extraneous aid. It is a sun absorbing every 
surrounding luminary. Its beauty eclipses every charm 
brought in comparison with it. Yet, is this a reason why 
in enforcing its glorious truths upon our fellow-men, we 
should disdain assistance which, although it aids not the 
gospel, is useful to them? 

7. Follow the opposite principle, and lay aside preaching 
The gospel approves itself to the conscience; evepy attempt 
to illustrate and enforce it is useless, when applied to the 
truth itself, for it can not be rendered more excellent than 
it is: yet it may be rendered more perspicuous to our fellow- 


men ; it ueeds enforcing as it regards them ; and preaching 
has been instituted by God himself for that express purpose. 
So eloquence can not render assistance to the gospel itself; 
but may be useful to those who attend it. True eloquence 
has for its object, not merely to please, but to render lumin- 
ous the subject discussed, and to reach the hearts of those 

8. We live in a day when it becomea us to be equal eve.*j 
way to our adversaries. This we can never be, if we cherish 
a contempt for liberal science. Infidelity lifls her standard, 
and advances, with daring front, to "defy the armies of the 
living God." Distinguished talents rally Rround her ensign. 
The charms of eloquence, the force of reason, the majesty 
of literature, the light of science, are all enlisted under her 
banner; are all opposed to the "truth as it is in Jesus." Let 
us, in reliance upon Divine aid, meet them upon equal terms, 
contend with them on their own ground, turp against them 
their own weapons. Let us meet them in the plain, or upon 
the mountain ; let us ascend to their elevation, or stoop to 
their level. Let us oppose science to science, eloquence to 
eloquence, light to light, energy to energy. Let us prove 
that we are their equals in intellect, their colleagues in lite- 
rature: but that, in addition to this, "One is our master, 
even Christ" — that we have " a more sure word of prophecy " 
— and that our light borrowed from the fountain of illumina- 
tion, will shine with undiminished luster, when their lamp, 
fed only by perishable, precarious supplies, shall be forever 
extinguished ! 


1. Til EKE is a land of pure delight, 

Whflre Kaints immortal reigft ; 
Eternal day excludes the night, 
And pleasures banish pnin. 

2. There everlanting spring abides. 

And never-fading flowers ; 
Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 


3. S^reot fields, beyond the swelling flood. 

Stand dressed in living green: 
So to the Jews fair Canaan stood, 

Wlnle Jordan rolled between. 

4. But timorous mortals start and shrink, 

To cross this narrow sea; 
And linger, trembling on the brink, 
And fear to launch away. 

5. Oh I could we make our doubts remove, 

Those gloomy doubts that rise, 
And see the Canaan that we love 
With un beclouded eyes ; — 

6. Could we but climb where Moses stood. 

And view the landscape o'er, 
Not Jordan's stream — nor death's cold flood. 
Should fright us from the shore. WAm 


1. When all thy mercies, my God, 

My rising soul surveys, 
Transported with the view, I'm lost 
In wonder, love, and praise. 

2. Unnumbered comforts to my soul 

Thy tender care bestowed. 
Before my infant heart conceived 
From whom those comforts flowed. 

3. When in the slippery paths of youth 

With heedless steps I ran. 
Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe. 
And led me up to man. 

4. Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 

My daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart. 
That tastes those gifts with joy 

5. Through every period of my life, 

Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
And after death, in distant worlds. 
The glorious theme renew. 


6. Through all eternity, to theo 
A joyful song I'll raise : 
But oh ! eternity's too short 
To utter all thy praise I addiso.v 


1. We might ask the patrons of infidelity, what fury 
impels them to attempt the subversion of Christianity? Is 
it that they have discovered a better system ? To what vir- 
tues are their principles favorable ? Or is there one which 
Christians have not carried to a higher than any of which 
their party can boast? Have they discovered a more excel- 
lent rule of life, or a better hope in death, than that which 
the Scriptures suggest? Above all, what are the pretensions 
on which they rest their claims to be the guides of mankind, 
or which emboldened them to expect we should trample on 
the experience of ages, and abandon a religion which has 
been attest<^d by a train of miracles and prophecies, in which 
millions of our forefathers have found a refuge in every 
trouble, and consolation in the hour of death ; a religion 
which has been adorned with the highest sanctity of char- 
acter and splendor of talents ; which =nrols among its dis- 
ciples the names of Bacon, Newton, and Locke, the glory 
of their species, and to which these illustrious men were 
proud to dedicate the last and best fruits of their immortal 

2. If the question at issue is to be decided by argument,  
nothing can be added to the triumph of Christianity ; if by 
an appeal to authority, what have our adversaries to oppose 
to these great names? Where are the infidels of such pure, 
uncontaminatcd morals, unshaken probity, and extended 
benevolence, that we should be in no danger of being 
seduced into impiety by their example? Into what obscure 
recesses of misery, into what dungeons, have their philan- 
thropists penetrated, to lighten the fetters and relieve the 
sorrows of the helpless captive? What barbarous tribes 
have their apostles visited? What distant climes have they 
explored, encompassed with cold, nakedness, and want, to 


diffuse principles of virtue and the blessings of civilization ? 
Or will they choose to waive thoir pretensions to this extra- 
ordinary, and in their eyes eccentric species of benevolence, 
and rest their character on their political exploits ; on their 
efforts to re'dnimate the virtues of a sinking state, to restrain 
licentiousness, to calm the tumult of popular fury ; and, by 
inculcating the spirit of justice, moderation and pity for 
fallen greatness, to mitigate the inevitable horrors of revo- 
lution? Our adversaries will, at least, have the discretion, 
if not the modesty to recede from this test. 

3. More than all, their infatuated eagerness, their parrici- 
dal zeal, to extinguish a sense of Deity, must excite aston- 
ishment and horror. Is the idea of an almighty and perfect 
ruler unfriendly to any passion which is consistent with 
innocence, or an obstruction to any design which is not 
shameful to avow ? 

4. Eternal God! on what are thine enemies intent? 
What are those enterprises of guilt and horror, that, for 
the safety of their performers, require to be enveloped in a 
darkness which the eye of Heaven must not pierce? Miser- 
able men ! — proud of being the offspring of chance ; in love 
with universal disorder ; whose happiness is involved in the 
belief of there being no witness to their designs, and who 
are at ease only because they suppose themselves inhabi- 
tants of a forsaken and fatherless world ! 


1. Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends tho 
extent of the support given by religion to every virtue. No 
man, perhaps, is aware how much our moral and social sen- 
timents are fed from this fountain ; how powerless con 
science would become without the belief of a God ; how pal- 
sied would be human benevolence, were there not the sense 
of a higher benevolence to quicken and sustain it ; how 
suddenly the whole social fabric would quake, and with what 
a fearful crash it would sink into hopeless ruin, were the 
ideas of a supreme being, of accountableness, and of a future 
life, to be utterly erased from every mind. 


2. And let men thoroughly bSlieve that they are the work 
and sport of chance ; that no superior intelligence concerns 
itself with human affairs; that all their improvements perish 
for over at death ; that the weak have no guardian, and the 
injured no avenger; that there is no recompense for sacri- 
fices to uprightness and the public good ; that an oath is 
anheard in heaven ; that secret crimes have no witness but 
the perpitrator; that human existence has no purpose, and 
human virtue no unfailing friend; that this brief life is 
every thing tu us, and death is total, everlasting extinction; 
once let them thoroughly abandon religion ; and who can 
conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which 
would follow 1 

3. We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sym- 
pathy would hold society together. As reasonably might 
we believe, that, were the sun quenched in the heavens, our 
torches would illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize 
the creation. What is there in human nature to awaken 
respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of 
a day? And what is he more, if atheism be true? 

4. Krase all thought and fear of God from a community, 
and selfishness and sensuality would absorb the whole man. 
Appetite, knowing no restraint; and suffering, having no 
solace or hope, would trample in scorn on the restraints of 
human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked, and 
spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would 
supplant every other feeling, and man would become, in fact, 
what the theory of atheism declares him to be — a com- 
panion for brutes. w. e. channinq. - 


1 I TooD by the open casement, 

And looked upon the night, 
And .-;i\v the westward-going stars 
Tass slowly out of sight. 

2 Slowly the bright procession 

Went down the gleaming arch, 
And my soul discerned the music 
Of their lung triumphant march, 


3. Till the great celestial army, 

Stretching far beyond the poles. 
Became the eternal symbol 
Of the mighty march of souls. 

4. Onward 1 forever onward, 

Red Mars led down his clan. 
And the moon, like a mailed maiden, 
Was riding in the van. 

6. And some were bri;;ht in 

And some were faint and feinall — 
But these might be in their great hight, 
The noblest of 

6. Downward ! forever downward, 
Behind earth's dusky shore. 
They passed into the unknown night — 
They passed, and were no more. 

7 "NTm ni,.r.%' Ct a-xj not so! 

1 is not just; 
rur uio iyigin IS weak and the sense is dim 
That looks through the heated dust 

8. Tl lid the mailed moon, 

luougii they seem to fall and die, 
Still sweep with their embattled lines 

An endless reach of sky. 

9. And though the hills of death 

M;iy hide the bright array, 
The marshaled brotherhood of souls 
Still keeps its upward way. 

10. Upward ! forever upward ! 

I see their march sublime. 

And hear the glorious music 

Of the conquerors of time. 

11. And long let me remember, 

That the palest fainting one, 
May unto Divine wisdom be 
A bright and blazing sun. 

; D R E L I 1 U s . 231 


1. In every part of Scripture, it is remarkable with what 
singular tenderness the season of youth is always men- 
tioned, and what hopes are oflfered to the devotion of the 
young. It was at that age that God appeared unto Moses 
when he fed his flock in the desert, and called him to the 
command of his own people. It was at that age he visited 
the infant Samuel, while he ministered in the temple of 
the Lord, " in days when the word of the Lord was precious, 
and when there was no open vision." It was at that age 
that his spirit fell upon David, while he was yet the young- 
est of his father's sons, and when among the mountains of 
Bethlehem he fed his father's sheep. 

2. It was at that age, also, that they brought young chil- 
dren unto Christ that he should touch them ; and his dis- 
ciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus 
saw it, he was much displeased, and said to them, " Suffer 
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for 
of such is the kingdom of Heaven." If these, then, are 
the effects and promises of youth and piety, rejoice, 
young man, in thy youth 1 — rejoice in those days which are 
never to return, when religion comes to thee in all its 
charms, and when the God of nature reveals himself to thy 
soul, like the mild radiance of the morning sun, when he 
rises amid the blessings of a grateful world. 

3. If already Devotion hath taught thee her secret pleas- 
ures ; if, when Nature meets thee in all its magnificence or 
beauty, thy heart humbleth itself in adoration before the 
hand which made it, and rcjoiecth in the contemplation of 
the wisdom by which it is maintained ; if, when Revelation 
unvaiU her mercies, and the Son of God comes forth to 
give peace and hope to fallen man, thine eye follows with 
astonishment the glories of his path, and pours at last over 
his cross those pious tears which it is a delight to shed ; if 
thy soul accompanieth him in his triumph over the grave, 
and entereth on the wings of faith into that heaven " whcrn 
he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on High," 
and Bceth the '• society of angels and of the spirits of ju^t 
men made perfect," and listeneth to the *' everlasting song 


which is sung before the throne ;" if such are the medita- 
tions in which thy youthful hours are passed, renounce not, 
for all that life can oflfer thee in exchange, these solitary 
joys. The world which is before thee — the world which 
thine imagination paints in such brightness — has no pleas- 
ures to bestow which can compare with these ; and all that 
its boasted wisdom can produce has nothing so acceptable 
in the sight of Heaven, as this pure offering of thy in- 
fant soul. 

4. In these days, '* the Lur«l hiiu-un k-, ihy shepherd, and 
thou dost not want. Amid the green pastures, and by the 
still waters " of youth, he now makes " thy soul to repose." 
But the years draw nigh, when life shall call thee to its 
trials ; the evil days are on the wing, when " thou shalt say 
thou hast no pleasure in them ;" and, as thy steps advance, 
" the valley of the shadow of death opens," through which 
thou must pass at last. It is then thou shalt know what it 
is to " remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." 
In these days of trial or of awe, " his spirit shall be with 
thee," and thou shalt fear no ill ; and, amid every evil that 
surrounds thee, " he shall restore thy soul. His goodness 
and mercy shall follow thee all the days of thy life ;" and 
when at last " the silver cord is loosed, thy spirit shall re- 
turn to the God who gave it, and thou shalt dwell in tho 
house of the Lord forever." alison. 




1. Be not deceived, my countrymen. Believe not these 
venal hirelings, when they would cajole you by their sub- 
tiltics into submission, or frighten you by their vaporinga 
into compliance. When they strive to flatter you by the 
terms " moderation and prudence," tell them that calmness 
and deliberation are to guide the judgment ; courage and 
intrepidity command the action. When they endeavor to 
make us " perceive our inability to oppose our mother 
country," let us boldly answer — In defence of our civil and 
religious rights, we dare oppose the world ; with the God 
of armies on our side, even the God who fought our father's 
battles, we fear not the hour of trial, though the hosts of 
our enemies should cover the field like locusts. If this be 
enthusiasm, we will live and die enthusiasts. 

2. Blandishments will not fascinate us, nor will threats 
of a " halter " intimidate. For, under God, we are deter- 
mined, that wheresoever, whensoever, or howsoever we shall 
bo called to make our exit, we will die freemen. Well do 
we know that all the regalia of this world can not dignify 
the death of a villain, nor diminish the ignominy, with which 
a slave shall quit existence. Neither can it taint the un- 
blemished honor of a son of freedom, though he should 
make his departure on the already prepared gibbet, or be 
dragged to the newly erected scaffold for execution. With 
the plaudits of his country, and what is more, the plaudits' 
of his conscience, he will go off the stage. The history of 
his life, his children shall venerate. The virtues of their 
sires shall excite their emulation. 

3. Who has the front to ask. Wherefore do you com- 
plain ? Who dares assert, that every thing worth living foi 
is not lost, when a nation is enslaved? Are not pension- 
ers, stipendiaries, and salary-men, unknown before, hourly 
multiplying upon u< to liuf in the sjoils «.r miserabla 

Kinn — 20 


America ? Docs not every eastern gale waft us some new 
insect, even of that devouring kind which eat up every 
green thing ? Is not the bread taken out of the children's 
mouths and given unto the dogs? Are not our estates given 
to corrupt sycophants, without a design, or even a pretense 
of soliciting our assent; and our lives put into tlie hands 
of those whose tender mercies are cruelties? Has not an 
authority in a distant land, in the most public manner pro- 
claimed a right of disposing of the all of Americans? In 
short, what have we to lose ? What have we to fear ? Are 
not our distresses more than we can bear? And, to finish 
all, are not our cities, in a time of profound peace, filled with 
standing armies, to preclude from us that last solace of the 
wretched — to open their mouths in complaint, and send forth 
their cries in bitterness of heart ? 

4. But is there no ray of hope ? Is not Great Britain in- 
habited by the children of those renowned barons, who 
waded through seas of crimson gore to establish their lib- 
erty? and will they not allow us, their fellow men, to enjoy 
that freedom which we claim from nature, which is con- 
firmed by our constitution, and which they pretend so 
highly to value? Were a tyrant to conquer us, the chains 
of slavery, when opposition should become useless, might 
be supportable; but to be shackled by Englishmen — by 
our equals — is not to be borne. By the sweat of our brow 
we earn the little we possess; from nature we derive the 
common rights of man ; and by charter we claim the lib- 
erties of Britons. Shall we, dare we, pusillanimously sur- 
render our birthright? Is the obligation to our fathers dis- 
charged? Is the debt we owe posterity paid? Answer me, 
thou coward, who mdest thyself in the hour of trial ! If 
there is no reward in this life, no prize of glory in the 
next, capable of animating thy dastar4 soul, think and trem- 
ble, thou miscreant ! at the whips and stripes thy master 
shall lash thee with on earth — and the flames and scorpions 
thy second master shall torment thee with hereafter ! 

5. Oh my countrymen ! what will our children say, when 
they read the history of these times, should they find that we 
tamely gave way, without one noble struggle for the most 


Invaluable of earthly blessings I As they drag the galling 
chain, will they not execrate us? If we have any respect 
for things sacred, any regard to the dearest treasure on 
earth; if we have one tender sentiment for posterity; if 
we would not be despised by the whole world ; let us, in the 
most open, solemn manner, and with determined fortitude, 
swear — we will die, if we can not live freemen. While we 
have equity, justice, and God on our side, tyranny, spirit- 
ual or temporal, shall never ride triumphant in a land in- 
habited by Englishmen. josiah quincy. 


1. My Lords, — I have yet to learn that a measure re- 
commended upon principle, consistent in its form, and cer- 
tainly proceeding upon an anxious wish to restore, and not 
to destroy — to improve, and not to impair — is to be at once 
cried down and abandoned, because it happens to enjoy the 
additional quality — I will not call it a recommendation — 
that it is honestly and sincerely greeted with approbation 
by a large body of his majesty's subjects. 

2. But if it is said that I am talking of the people, and 
not of a few agitators, then I say I am also yet to learn 
that a measure recommended by its own merits, good in 
principle, and having the additional accident — I will not 
call it a recommendation, though I think it to be one — of 
being universally, and in an unprecedented degree, the fa- 
vorite of the people of England, is at once to be set aside, 
and at once to be condemned and rejected, because it pos- 
sesses the additional accident — again I will not call it a 
recommendation, but an accident — of pacifying even that 
portion of our fellow-subjects, which, as has been men- 
tioned in this house, no exertion of human power caa 

3. Still, my loi not call upon you to adopt this 
measure because it happens to be consistent with popular 
feelings ; I do not call upon you to adopt it upon that ac- 
count ; but I am persuaded, that if this measure be rejected, 
you will bring the security of tthc country, the peace of hia 


roajestT, the stability of our ancient constitution, and the 
whole frame of society, from Cornwall to Sutherland — Ire- 
land as well as England — into a state of jeopardy, which I 
earnestly pray to heaven may never come to pass. 

4. My lords, I do not wish to use the language of threats ; 
Dut I recollect, and history has recorded the fact, that 
when the great Earl of Chatham was addressing our most 
serene ancestors within these walls, when he was shaking 
them with his magnificent oratory, he suflfered the lightning 
of his eloquence to smite the enemies of reform by menac- 
ing them with the dangers that must attend an attempt to 
withhold from the people their just rights; and I well re- 
member that that was deemed no insult by those who heard 
him, but was considered honorable, highly honorable, to 
him who had the boldness to utter that denunciation. For 
my own part, all that I will venture to do, in this latter 
day of eloquence and of talent, standing in the honorable 
situation which I do in this house and in the country, is 
to call upon your lordships to reflect, and believe that the 
thunders of heaven are sometimes heard to roll in the voice 
of a united people ! H. brougham. 


1. The atrocious crime of being a young man, which, 
with so much spirit and decency, the honorable gentleman 
has charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate 
nor deny ; but content myself with wishing, that I may be 
one of those whose follies cease with their youth ; and not 
of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience, 

2. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a re- 
proach, I will not assume the province of determining; but, 
surely, age may become justly contemptible, if the oppor- 
tunities which it brings, have passed away without improve- 
ment, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have 

3. The wretch that, after having seen the consequences 
of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose 
age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the ob- 


ject of either abhorrence or contempt; and deserves not 
that his gray head should screen him from insults. Much 
more is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, 
has receded from virtue, and becomes more wicked, with less 
temptation : — who prostitutes himself for money which he 
can not enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin 
of his country. 

4. But youth is not my only crime. I have been accused 
of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may imply, 
either some peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of 
my real sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and 
language of another man. 

5. In the first sense, the charge is too trifling to be con- 
futed ; and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may bo 
despised. I am at liberty — like every other man — to use my 
own language : and though I may perhaps, have some am- 
bition, yet, to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself 
under any restraint, or very solicitously copy his diction, 
or his mien, however matured by age, or modeled by ex- 
perience. If, by charging me with theatrical behavior, any 
man mean to insinuate that I utter any sentiments but my 
own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain : nor 
shall any protection shelter him from the treatment which 
he deserves. On such an occasion, I shall, without scruple, 
trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity 
intrench themselves ; nor shall any thing but age, restrain 
my resentment: — age, which always brings one privilege — 
that of being insolent and superciJious without punishment. 

G. But, with regard to those whom I have offended, I am 
of opinion, that, had I acted a borrower! part, I should have 
avoided their censure. The heat that offended them, is the 
ardor of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my 
country, which neither hope, nor fear, shall influence mo :3 
suppress. I will not sit unconcerned, while my liberty la 
invaded; nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will 
exert my endeavors, at whatever hazard, to repel the ag- 
gressor, and drag the thief to justice — what power soever 
may protect the villainy, and whoever may partake of th« 

pluTld'T W.M. IMTT. 


1. The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and 
tendency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of 
Northern character. He has forgotten the history of his 
country. Preach insurrection to the Northern labrrers I 
Who are the Northern laborers? The history of your 
country is their history. The renown of your country is 
their renown. The brightness of their doings is embla 
zoned on its every page. Blot from your annals the words 
and the doings of Northern laborers, and the history of 
your country presents but a universal blank. Sir, who was 
he that disarmed the Thunderer ; wrested from his grasp the 
bolts of Jove; calmed the troubled ocean; became the cen- 
tral sun of the philosophical system of his age, shedding his 
brightness and effulgence on the whole civilized world ; 
whom the great and mighty of the earth delighted to 
honor; who participated in the achievement of your inde- 
pendence, projninently assisted in molding your free insti- 
tutions, and the beneficial eflfects of whose wisdom will be 
felt to the last moment of "recorded time?" Who, sir, I 
ask, was he? A Northern laborer — a Yankee tallow-chan- 
dler's son — a printer's runaway boy ! 

2. And who, let me ask the honorable gentleman, who 
was he that, in the days of our Revolution, led forth a 
Northern army — yes, an army of Northern laborers — and 
aided the chivalry of South Carolina in their defense against 
British aggression, drove the spoilers from their firesides, 
and redeemed her fair fields from foreign invaders? Who 
was he? A Northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith — 
the gallant General Green — who left his hammer and his 
forge, and went forth conquering and to conquer in the bat- 
tle for our independence ! And will you preach insurrec- 
tion to men like these? 

3. Sir, our country is full of the achievements of North- 
ern laborers! Where is Concord, and Lexington, and 
Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, 
but in the North ? And what, sir, has shed an imperisha- 
ble renown on the never-dying names of those hallowed 
spots, but the blood and the struggles, the high daring, and 


patriotism, and sublime courage of Northern laborers ? 
The whole North is an everlasting monument of the free- 
dom, virtue, intelligence, and indomitable independence of 
Northern laborers ! Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men 
like these ! 

4. The fortitude of the men of the North, under intonsa 
suflfering for liberty's sake, has been almost god-like ! His- 
tory has so recorded it. Who comprised that gallant army^ 
without food, without pay, shelterless, shoeless, penniless, 
and almost naked, in that dreadful winter — the midnight 
of our Revolution — whose wanderings could be traced by 
their blood-tracks in the snow ; whom no arts could seduce, 
no appeal lead astray, no sufferings disafi'ect ; but who, true 
to their country and its holy cause, continued to fight the 
good tight of liberty, until it finally triumphed? Who, 
sir, were these men? Why, Northern laborers! — yes, sir, 
Northern laborers I Who, sir, were lloger Sherman and — . 
But it is idle to enumerate. To name the Northern labor- 
ers who have distinguished themselves, and illustrated the 
history of their country, would require days of the time of 
this house. Nor is it necessary. Posterity will do them 
justice. Their deeds have been recorded in characters 
of fire.! c. c. naylor. 


1. I HAVE been charged with that importance in the ef- 
forts to emancipate my country, as to be considered the key- 
stone o^ the combination of Irishmen, or, as your lordship 
expressed it, "the life and blood of the conspiracy." You 
do me honor over-much : you have given to the subaltern 
all the credit of a supe;-ior. There are men engaged in this 
conspiracy, who are not only superior to me, but even to 
your own conceptions of yourself, my lord ; men, before the 
splendor of whose genius and virtues, I .should bow with 
respectful deference, and who would think themselves dis 
honored to bo called your friend — who would not disgrace 
themselves by shakinu your blood-stiined hand. 


2. What, my lord, shall you tell me, on the passage to 
that scafl'old, which that tyranny, of which you arc only the 
intcrmed-ary executioner, has erected for my murder, that 1 
am accountahle for all the blood that has been, and will be 
shed, in this struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor? 
Shall you tell mc this, and must I be so very a slave as not 
to repel it? I do not fear to approach the omnipotent 
Judge, to answer for the conduct of my whole life ; and am 
[ to be appalled and falsified by a mere remnant of mor- 
tality here? by you, too, who, if it were possible to collect 
all the innocent blood that you have shed in your unhal- 
lowed ministry, in one great reservoir, your lordship might 
swim in it. 

.*>. Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with 
dishonor! let no man attaint my memory, by believing thai 
[ could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's 
liberty and independence; or, that I could have become the 
pliant minion of power, in the oppression, or the miseries, 
of my countrymen. The proclamation of the provisional 
government speaks forth our views; no inference can be tor- 
tured from it, to countenance barbarity, or debasement at 
home, or subjection, humiliation, or treachery from abroad. 
I would not have submitted to a foreign invader, for thp same 
reason that I would resist the foreign and domestic oppres- 
sor; in the dignity of freedom, I would have fought upon 
the threshold of my country, and its enemy should enter 
only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who have 
lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to 
the dangers of the jealous and watchful oppressor, and the 
bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their 
rights, and my country her independence, and am I to be 
loaded with calumny, and not suffered to resent or repel it? 
No, God forbid ! 

4. If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the 
concerns, and cares of those, who are dear to them in this 
transitory life, 0, ever dear and venerated shade of my de- 
parted father, look down with scrutiny, upon the conduct 
of your suffering son ; and see if I have even for a moment 
deviatoil from those principles of morality and patriotism, 


which it was your care to instill into my youthful mind , 
and for which I am now to offer up my life. My lords, yoo 
are impatient for the sacrifice. The blood, which you seek, 
i$9 not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround 
your victim; it circulates warmly and unruffled, through the 
channels which God created for noble purposes, but which 
you are bent to destroy, for purposes so grievous, that they 
cry to heaven. 

5. Be yet patient I I have but a few words more to say. 
I am going to my cold and silent grave : my lamp of life 
is nearly extinguished ; my race is run : the grave opens to 
receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one re- 
quest to ask at my departure from this world, — it is the 
charity of its silence ! Let no man write my epitaph : for, 
as no man, who knows my motives, dare now vindicate them, 
let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them, and 
me, repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain 
uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice 
to my character : when my country takes her place among 
the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epi- 
taph bo written. I have done. 


1. I CAN not, my lords, I will not join in congratulation 
on misfortune and disgrace. This, my lords, is a perilous 
and tremendous moment. It is not a time for adulation ; 
the smoothness of flattery can not save us in this rugged 
and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne 
in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the 
delusion and darkness which envelop it; and display, in its 
full danger, and genuine colors, the ruin which is brought 
t€ our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect sup 
port in their infatuation? Can parliament be so dead to its 
dignity and duty, as to give their support to measures thus 
obtruded and forced upon them ? Measures, my lords, 
which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn 
and contempt! 
K I DO. -21 


2. " But yesterday, and Britain might have stood againsi 
the world , low, none so poor as to do her reverence." The 
people, whom we at first despised as rebels, but wham we 
now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against us, suj^l-* 
plied with every military store, have their interest coiF^ 
suited, and their embassadors entertained by our inveterate 
enemy — and ministers do not, and dare not interpose witli 
dignity or cflfect. 

3. The desperate state of our army abroad, is in part 
known. No man more highly esteems and honors the 
British troops than I do ; I know their virtues and their 
valor; I know they can achieve any thing but impossibili- 
ties ; and I know that the conquest of British America is 
an impossibility. You can not, my lords, you can not con- 
quer America. What is your present situation there? We 
do not know the worst; but we know that in three cam- 
paigns we have done nothing, and suffered much. 

4. You may swell every expense, and accumulate every 
assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every 
German despot ; your attempts will be forever vain and 
impotent — doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on 
which you rely ; for it irritates to an incurable resentment 
the minds of your adversaries, to overrun them with the 
mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and 
their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I 
were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign 
troop remained in my country, I never would lay down my 
arms ; no, never, never, never. Chatham. 


1 Mr. Hastings has declared his opinion that he is a 
despotic prince ; that he is to use arbitrary power, and that 
of course all his acts are covered with that shield. "I 
know," says he, " the constitution of Asia only from its 
practice.*' Will your lordships submit to hear the corrupt 
practices of mankind made the principles of government? 
No • it will be your pride aud glory to teach men intrusted 


with power, that, in their use of it, they are to conform to 
principles, and not to draw their principles from the corrupt 
practice of any man whatever. 

2. Was there ever heard, or could it he conceived, that a 
governor would dare to heap up all the evil practiees, all 
the cruelties, oppressions, extortions, corruptions, bribsncs, 
of all the ferocious usurpers, de^-perate robbers, thieves 
cheats, and jugglers, that ever had office from one end of 
Asia to another, and, consolidating all this mass of the crimes 
and absurdities of barbarous domination into one code, 
establish it as the whole duty of an English governor? 1 
believe that, till this time, so audacious a thing was never 
attempted by man. 

3. He have arbitrary power! My lords! the East India 
Company have not arbitrary power to give him — the king 
has no arbitrary power to give him ; your lordships have it 
not, nor the commons, nor the whole legislature. We have 
no arbitrary power to give, because arbitrary power is a 
thing which neither any man can hold nor any man can 
give. No man can lawfully govern himself according to his 
own will, much less can one person be governed by the will 
of another.. We are all born in subjection, all born equally, 
high and low, governors and governed, in subjection to one 
great immutable preexistent law, prior to all our devices, 
and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our 
ideas, and all our sensations, antecedent to our very exist- 
ence, by which we aie knit and connected in the eternal 
frame of the uni\ jrse, and out of which we can not stir. 



1. Mn. Presidrnt, we roust distinguish a little. That 
there exists in this country an intense sentiment of nation- 
ality; a cherished energetic feeling and consciousness of 
our independent and separate national existence ; a feeling 
that wc have a transcendent destiny to fulfill, which we 
mean to fulfill ; a great work to do, which we know how to 
'!•• :in-l :ir(> <}>]" to <\<< ,i'i- fo nm, uj- v, !■!•!■ '.^ i" hope 


to uscend, till we stand on tbo steadfast and glittering 
suniniits of the world ; a feeling, that we are surrounded 
and attended by a noble historical group of competitors and 
rivals, the other nations of the earth, all of whom we hope 
to overtake, and even to distance — such a sentiment as this 
exists, perhaps, in the character of this people. And this 
I do not discourage, I do not condemn. But, sir, that 
among these useful and beautiful sentiments, predominant 
among thorn, there exists a temper of hostility toward this 
one particular nation, to suclt a degree as to amount to a 
habit, a trait, a national passion — to amount to a state of 
feeling which "is to be regretted," and which really threat- 
ens another war — this I earnestly and confidently deny. I 
would not hear your enemy say this. Sir, the indulgence 
of such a sentiment by the people supposes them to have 
forgotten one of the counsels of Washington. Call to mind 
the ever seasonable wisdom of the Farewell Address: "The 
nation which indulges toward another an habitual hatred, 
or an habitual fondness, is, in some degree, a slave. It is 
a slave to its animosity, or to its affection, either of which 
is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest." 
2. No, sir! no, sir! We are above all this. Let the 
Highland clansman, half-naked, half-civilized, half-blinded 
by the peat-smoke of his cavern, have his hereditary enemy 
and his hereditary enmity, and keep the keen, deep, and 
pernicious hatred, set on fire of hell, alive, if he can ; let the 
North American Indian have his, and hand it down from 
father to son, by what symbols he may please, of alligators, 
and rattlesnakes, and war-clubs smeared with vermilion and 
entwined with scarlet; let such a country as Poland — cloven 
to the earth, the armed heel on the radiant forehead, her 
body dead, her soul incapable to die — let her remember the 
"wrongs of days long past;" let the lost and wandering 
tribes of Israel remember theirs — the manliness and the 
sympathy of the world may allow or pardon this to them ; 
but shall America, young, free, prosperous, just setting out 
on the highway of heaven, "decorating and cheering the 
elevated sphere she just begins to move in, glittering like 
the morning star, full of life and joy," shall she be supposed 

SENATORxA ... 245 

to be polluting and corroding her noble and happy heart, 
by moping over old stories of stamp act, and tea tax, and 
the firing of the Leopard upon the Chesapeake in a time 
of peace? No, sir! no, sirl a thousand times no! Why, I 
protest I thought all that had been settled. I thought two 
wars had settled it all. What else was so much good blood 
shed for, on so many more than classical fields of Revolu- 
tionary glory? For what was so much good blood more 
lately shed, at Lundy's Lane, at Fort Erie, before and be- 
hind the lines at New Orleans, on the deck of the Consti- 
tution, on the deck of the Java, on the lakes, on the sea, 
but to settle exactly these "wrongs of past days?" And 
have we come back sulky and sullen from tlio very field of 
honor? For my country, I deny it 

3. Mr. President, let me say that, in my judirmcnt, this 
notion of a national enmity of feeling toward Great Bri- 
tain belongs to a past age of our history. My younger 
countrymen are unconscious of it. They disavow it. That 
generation in whose opinions and feelings the actions and 
the destiny of the next are unfolded, as the tree in the 
germ, do not at all comprehend your meaning, nor your 
fears, nor your regrets. Wc are born to happier feelings. 
We look to England as wc look to France. We look to 
them from our new world — not unrenowned, yet a new 
world still — and the blood mounts to our cheeks ; our eyes 
swim ; our voices are stifled with emulousness of so much 
glory; their trophies will not let us sleep; but there is no 
hatred at all ; no hatred — no barbarian memory of wrongs, 
for which brave men have made the last expiation to the 
brave. rufus choatf 


1. When public bodies are to be addressed, on momentous 
occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong pas- 
sions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, fartiier ihnn it 
IB connected viiih high intellectual and moral endowment? 


Clearness, force and earnestness, are the qualities which pro 
duco conviction True eloquence, indeed, does not consis) 
in speech. It can not be brought from far. Labor and 
learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. 

2. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, 
but they can not compass it. It must exist in the man, io 
the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense 
expression, the ponu. of dpclamation, all may aspire after it, 
but can not reach < omes, if it come at all, like the 
outbreaking of a lountam from the earth, or the bursting 
forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native 

3. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments 
and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust mon, 
when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their 
children, and their country, hang on the decision of the 
hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, 
and all elaborate oratory, contemptible. Even genius itself 
then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of 
higher qualities. 

4. Then, patriotism is eloquent; then, self-devotion ig 
eloquent. The clear conception, out-running the deductions 
of logic, the high purpose, of firm resolve, the dauntless 
spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, in- 
forming every feature, and urging the whole man onward, 
right onward to his object, — this is eloquence. 


1. On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full 
of courage and strength; « veteran infantry, a most gallant 
cavalry ; you, my allies most faithful and valiant ; you, 
Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but the 
justcst anger, impels to battle. The hope, the courage of 
assailants, is always than of those who act upon the 
d '.fensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come 
down upon Italy; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, in- 
dignities, fire your minds, and spur you forward to revenge. 

2. First, they demand me — that I, your general, should 


l)c delivered up to them ; next, all of you, who had fought 
at the siege of Saguntum ; and we were to be put to death 
hy the extremest tortures. Proud, and cruel nation ! every 
thing must be yours, and at your disposal ! You are to pre- 
scribe to us, with whom we shall make war, with whom we 
•hall make peace! You are to set us bounds; to shut us up 
within hills and rivers; but you — you are not to observe 
the limits, which yourselves have fixed. 

3. Pass not the Ibcrus ! What next? Touch not the 
Saguntines; js Saguntum upon the Iberus? move not a step 
toward that city. Is it a small matter, then, that you have 
deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia? 
you would have Spain, too? Well, we shall yield Spain; 
and then you will pass into Africa ! Will pass, did I say ? 
this very year, they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, 
the other into Spain. 

4. No, soldiers, there is nutUing left for us, but what we 
can vindicate with our swords. Come on then, be men. 
The Romans may with more safety be cowards ; they have 
their own country behind ; have places of refuge to flee to, 
and are secure from danger in the roads thither; but for 
you, there is no middle fortune between death and victory. 
Let this be but well fixed in your minds, and once again, 
I say, you are conquerors. livy. 


1. 1 HAVE but one lamp by which my feet are guided; 
iod that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of 
judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by 
the past, I wish to know what there has been, in the con- 
duct of the British ministry, for the last ten years, to justif} 
IhoBO hopes with which gentlemen have been pleasea to 
solace themselves, and the house? Is it that insidious 
8uiile with which our petition has been lately received? 
Trust it not, sir ; it will prove a snare to your feeu Suf- 
fer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yoar- 
p.>i...., I. .... *i.: ._ . : .^jg reception of our petition comportf 


with those warlike preparations which cover our waters, and 
darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a 
work of love and reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves 
«o unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in 
to win back our love? 

2. Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the im- 
plements of war and subjugation — the last arguments to 
irhich kings resort. I ask, gentlemen, sir, what means this 
martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submis- 
sion ? Can gentlemen assign any other possibje motive for 
it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the 
world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and 
armies ? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us ; 
they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to 
bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British min- 
istry have been so long forging. And what have we to 
oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have 
been trying that for the last ten years. Have we any thing 
new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. 

3. We have held the subject up in every light of which 
it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort 
to entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall 
we find which have not been already exhausted ? Let us 
not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer, -sir, we* 
have done every thing that could be done to avert the storm 
which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have 
remonstrated ; we have supplicated ; we have prostrated 
ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interpo- 
sition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and 
parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remon- 
strances have produced additional violence and insult; our 
supplications have been disregarded, and we have been 
ipurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. 

4. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond 
hope oi peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any 
room for hope. If we wish to be free ; if we mean to pre- 
serve inviolate those inestimable privileges, for which we 
have been so long contending ; if we mean not basely tw 
Kbandon the noble struggle, in which we have been so long 

8ENA1UK1AL. 249 

engaged, and which wc have pledged ourselves never to 
abandon, until the glorious object of our contest shall be 
obtained — we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must'fight! 

5. An appeal to arms, and to the God dF hosts, is all 
that is left us. They tell us, sir, that we are weak, unable 
to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall 
we be stronger? Will it be the next week or the next 
year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when 
a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall 
we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we 
acquire the means of eflfectual resistance by lying supinely 
on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, 
until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? 

6. Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those 
means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. 
Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, 
and in such a country as that which we possess, are invinci- 
ble by any force which our enemy can send against us. 
Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is 
a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and 
who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The 
battle, sir, is not to the strong alone, it is to the vigilant, 
the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. 
If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to 
retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submis- 
sion "and slavery. Our chains are forged. Their clanking 
may be heard on flie plains of Boston ! The war is inevi- 
table, and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come! 

7. It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen 
may cry peace, peace, but there is no peace. The war is 
actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the North 
will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms ! Our 
brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle! 
What is it that gentlemen wish? what would they have? 
Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the 
price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I 
know not what course others mav take, but as for nic, give 
me liberty, or give me deat 



1. Impoutant as I deem it to discuss, on all proper occa- 
sions, the policy of the measures at present pursued, it if 
still more important to maintain the right of such discus- 
ion, in its full and just extent. Sentiments lately sprung 

op, and now growing fashionable, make it necessary to be 
explicit on this point. The more I perceive a disposition 
to check the freedom of inquiry by extravagant and uncon- 
stitutional pretenses, the firmer shall be the tone, in which 
I shall assert, and the freer the manner, in which I shall 
exercise it. 

2. It is the ancient and undoubted prerogative of this 
people to canvass public measures and the merits of public 
men. It is a '' home-bred right," a fireside privilege. It 
hath ever been enjoyed in every house, cottage and cabin 
in the nation. It is not to be drawn into controversy. It 
is as undoubted as the* right of breathing the air, or walk- 
ing on the earth. Belonging to private life as a right, it 
belongs to public life as a duty; and it is the last duty, 
which those, whose representative I am, shall find me to 
abandon. Aiming at all times to be courteous and temperate 
in its use, except when the right itself shall be questioned, 
I shall place myself on the extreme boundary of my right, 
and bid defiance to any arm that would move me from my 

8. This high constitutional privilege, I shall defend and 
exercise, within this house, and without this house, and in 
all places; in time of peace, and at all times. Living I 
shall assert it ; and should I leave no other inheritance to 
my children, by the blessing of God, I will leave them the 
inheritance of free principles, and the example of a manly, 
independent and constitutional defense of them. 


1. War may stride over the land with the crushing step 
of a giant. Pestilence may st^al over it like an invisible 


curse — reaching its victims silently and unseen — unpeopling 
liere a village and there a city, until every dwelling is a 
sopulehcr. Famine may brood over it with a long and 
weary visitation, until the sky itself is brazen, and the beau- 
tiful greenness gives place to a parched desert — a wide waste 
of unproductive desolation. But these are only physical 
evils. The wild flower will bloom in peace on the field of 
battle and above the crushed skeleton. The destroying 
angel of the pestilence will retire when his errand is done, 
and the nation will again breathe freely : the barrenness 
of famine will cease at last — the cloud will be prodigal of its 
hoarded rain — and the wilderness will blossom. 

2. But for moral desolation there is no reviving spring. 
Let the moral and republican principles of our country be 
abandoned — our representatives bow in unconditional ob- 
sequiousness to individual dictation — let impudence and in- 
trigue and corruption triumph over honesty and intellect, 
and our liberties and strength will depart forever. Of these 
there can be no resuscitation. The " abomination of deso- 
lation" will be fixed and perpetual; and as the mighty fabric 
of our glory totters into ruins, the nations of the earth will 
mock us in our overthrow, like the powers of darkness, 
when the throned one of Babylon became even as themselves 
— and the " glory of the Chaldee's excellency" had gone 


1. Why, in the great scale of things, is labor ordained 
for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer, might 
it have been dispensed with. The world itself might have 
been a mighty machinery, for producing all that man wants. 
Houses might have risen like an exhalation, 

«* With the sound 
Of dulcet symphonies, and voices sweet, 
Built like a temple." 

2. Gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, 
And soft couches and luxurious banquets spread by hands 
unseen in, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving. 

252 ELOcuT^o^. 

rather than with imperial purple, might have been sent to 
disport himself in those Elysian palaces. 

3. " Fair scene!" I imagine you are saying; *' fortunate 
for us had it been the scene ordained for human life !" 
But where, then, had been human energy, perseverance, 
patience, virtue, heroism ? Cut ofif labor with one blow 
from the world, and mankind had sunk to a crowd of 
Asiatic voluptuaries. 

4. No, it had not been fortunate! Better that the earth 
be given to man as a dark mass whereupon to labor. Bet- 
ter that rude and unsightly materials be provided in the 
ore-bed, and in the forest, for him to fashion in splendor 
and beauty. Better, I say, not because of that splendor 
and beauty, but because the act of creating them is better 
than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler than 
enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy 
of honor than the idler. 

5. I call upon those whom I address, to f^tand up ior 
the nobility of labor. It is heaven's great ordinance for 
human improvement. - Let not the great ordinance be bro- 
ken down. What do I say? It is broken down ; and has 
been broken down for ages. Let it then be built again ; here, 
if any where, on the shores of a new world — of a new civili- 

6. But how. it may he asked, is it broken down ? Do 
not men toil? it may be said. They do indeed toil, but 
they too generally do because they must. Many submit to 
it, as in some sort, a degrading necessity ; and they desire 
nothing so much on earth as an escape from it. They ful- 
fill the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the 
spirit. To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler 
should hasten, as a chosen, coveted field of improvement. 

7. But so he is not compelled to do, under the teachings 
of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, 
folds his bands, and blesses himself in idleness. This way 
of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal 
system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent 
their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time thai i^x* 
opprobrium of toil were done away. 


8. Ashamed to toil? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop, 
And dusty hibor-field ; of thy hard hand, scarred with ser- 
vice more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and 
weather-stained garments, on which mother nature has 
embroidered mist, aun and rain, fire and steam, her own 
heraldic honors ? Ashamed of those tokens and titles, and 
OLvious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and van- 
ity ? It is treason to nature, it is impiety to heaven ; it is 
breaking heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I repeat — toil, 
either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the 
only true manhood — the only true nobility 1 



1. " But, Mr. Speaker, we have a right to tax America." 
Oh, inestimable right! Oh, wonderful, transcendent right! 
the assertion of which has cost this country thirteen prov- 
inces, six islands, one hundred thousand lives, and seventy 
millions of money. Oh, invaluable right! for the sake of 
which we have sacrificed our rank among nations, our im 
portance abroad, and our happiness at home ! Oh, right i 
more dear to us than our existence I which has already cost 
us so much, and which seems likely to cost us our all. In- 
fatuated man ! miserable and un(}one country ! not to know 
that the claim of right, without the power of enforcing it, 
is nugatory and idle. We have a right to tax America — 
the noble lord tells us — therefore we ought to tax America. 
This is the profound logic which comprises the whole chain 
of his reasoning. 

2. Not inferior to this was the wisdom of him who re- 
Rulved to shear the wolf What, shear a wolf! Have you 
considered the resistance, the difficulty, the danger of the 
attempt? No, says the madman, I have considered nothing 
tut the right. Man has a right of dominion over the bcast:^ 
of the forest; and therefore I will shear the wolf. How 
wonderful that a nation could bo thus deluded ! Hut the 
noble lord deals in cheats and delusions. They are the daily 
traffic of his invention; and he will contii lav ofl 


his chcuis on this house, so long as he thinks them neee» 
sary to his purpose, and so long as he has money enough 
at command to bribe gentlemen to pretend that they believe 
him. But a black and bitter day of reckoning will surely 
come ; and whenever that day comes, I trust I shall be able, 
by a parliamentary impeachment, to bring upon the heads 
of the authors of our calamities, the punishment they de- 
serve. BURKE. 


1. In the fate of the Aborigines of our country — the 
American Indians — there is, my friends, much to awaken 
our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our 
judgment; much which may be urged to excuse their atro- 
cities; much in their characters, which may betray us into 
an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy 
than their history ? Two centuries ago, the smoke of their 
wigwams, and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, 
from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean 
to the Mississippi and the Lakes. The shouts of victory and 
the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. 
The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through 
the forests ; and the hunter's trace, and the dark encamp- 
ment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors 
stood forth in their glory. The young men listened to the 
songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, 
and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The 
aged sat down ; but they wept not. They should soon be 
at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a 
home prepared for the brave, beyond the western skies. 
Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. 
They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity and persever- 
ance, beyond most of the human race. They shrunk from 
no dangers, and they feared no hardships. 

•2. If they had the vices of savage life, they had the vir- 
tues also. They were true to their country, their friends 
and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did 
they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their 
fidelity mid generosity were unconquerable also. Their love 


like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But 
where are they? Where are the viUages, and warriors, and 
youth? The sachems -and the tribes? The hunters and 
their families? They have perished. They are consumed. 
The wasting pestilence has not alono done the mighty work 
No — nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, 
u moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-cores — a 
plague, which the touch of the white man communicated — 
a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The 
winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they 
may now call their own. Already, the last feeble remnants 
of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mis- 

3. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the 
helpless, the women and the warriors, " few and faint, yet 
fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. 
The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They 
move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon 
their heels, for terror or despatch ; but they heed him not. 
They turn to t^ike a last look of their deserted villages. 
They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. 
They shed no tears ; they utter no cries ; they heave no 
groans. There is something in their hearts which passes 
speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance 
or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both ; 
which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. 
It is courage, absorbed in despair. They linger but for a 
moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal 
stream. It shall never be repassed by them — no, never. 
Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. 
They know and feel that there is for them still one remove 
further, not distant, nor unsoou. It is to the general burial 
<: round uf their race. story. 


1 Lkt your ambition, gentlemen, be to enroll your naniea 
Pii- '» ' histories our In r* . ''  1 mit 


eyes overflow with admiration, delight, and sympathy, from 
infancy to old age; and the story of whose virtues, ex- 
ploits, and sufferings will continue t<) produce the same 
effect throughout the world, at whatever distance of time 
they may be read. It is needless, and it were endless to 
name them. On the darker firmament of history, ancient 
and modern, thev resplendent with their 


2. T^ go no farther back, look for your model to the 
signers of our Declaration of Independence. You see 
revived in those men the spirit of ancient Rome in Home's 
best day ; for they were willing, with Curtius, to leap into 
the flaming gulf, which the oracle of their own wisdom 
had assured them could be closed in no other way. There 
was one, however, whose name is not among those signers, 
but who must not, nay, can not be forgotten ; for when a 
great and decided patriot is the theme, his name is not 
far off. 

3. Gentlemen, you need not go to past ages nor to dis- 
tant countries. You need not turn your eyes to ancient 
Greece or Rome, or to modern Europe. You have in your 
own Washington a recent model, whom you have only to 
imitate to become immortal. Nor must you suppose that 
he owed his greatness to the peculiar crisis which called 
out his virtues, and despair of such another crisis for the 
display of your own. His more than Roman virtues, his 
consummate prudence, his powerful intellect, and his daunt- 
less decision and dignity of character, would have made him 
illustrious in any age. The crisis would have done noth- 
ing for him had not his character stood ready to match it. 

4. Acquire this character, and fear not the recurrence 
of a crisis to show forth its glory. Look at the elements 
of commotion that are already at work in this vast republic, 
and threatening us with a moral earthquake that will con- 
vulse it to its foundation. Look at the political degene- 
racy which pervades the country, and which has already 
borne us so far away from the golden age of the revolu- 
tion ; look at all the " signs of the times," and you will 
see but little cause to indulge the hope that no crisis is 


likely to occur to give full scope for the exertion of the 
most heroic virtues. 

5. Hence it is tha\ I so anxiously hold up to you the 
model of Washington Form yourselves on that noble 
model. Strive to acquire his mode.^tty, his disinterested- 
ness, his singleness of heart, his determined devotion to his 
country, his candor in deliberation, his accuracy of judg- 
ment, his invincible firmness of resolve, and then may you 
hope to be in your own age, what he was in his — " ^rst in 
war. first in peace, and first in the hearts of your country- 

6. Commencing your career with this high strain of char- 
acter, your course will be as steady as the needle to the 
pole. Your end will be always virtuous, your means always 
noble. You will adorn as well as bless your country. You 
will exalt and illustrate the age in which you live. Your 
(\\ample will shake like a tempest that pestilential pool in 
which the virtues of our people are already beginning to 
stagnate, and restore the waters and the atmosphere to their 
rovnlntionary purity. W^UT. 


1. The war must go on. We must fight it through. 
And if the war must go on, why put off longer the Decla- 
ration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. 
It will give us character abroad. Why then, sir, do wc not. 
38 soon as possible, change this from a civil to a national 
war? And since we must fight it through, why not put 
onrseWes in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if 
we gain the victory ? If we fail, it can be no worse for us. 
But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the 
cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are 
true to them, will carry us and will carry themselves glori- 
ously through this struggle. 

'2. I care not how fickle other people have been found 
! know the people of these colonies; and I know that resist- 
ance to British aggression is deep and settled in their bearta« 


and can not be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has ex. 
pressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 
Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with increased 
courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for restoration 
of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immu- 
nities, held under a British king, set before them the glo- 
rious object of entire independence, and it will breathe 
into them anew the breath of life. 

3. Read this declaration at the head of the army ; every 
sword will be drawn from ita scabbard, and the solemn vow 
uttered, to maintain it or to perish on the bed of honor. 
Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and 
the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to 
Btiind with it or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; 
proclaim it there ; let them hear it, who heard the first roar 
of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it, who saw their 
brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, 
and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very 
walls will cry out in its support. 

4. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs; but 1 
see, I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, 
indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when 
this declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die col- 
onists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on 
the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of 
heaven that my country shall require the poor offering 
of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour 
of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do 
live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a coun- 
try, and that a free country. 

5. But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, 
that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and 
it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly com- 
pensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, 
I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. 
We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When 
we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will 
celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, 
«ind illuminations. On its annual return they will shr.d 


icara, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, 
not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, 
and of joy. 

G. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My 
judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in 
it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope 
in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I 
leave off as I began, that live or die, survive or perish, I 
am for the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by 
the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment; inde- 
pendence now ; and independence forever. 



1 I HAVE been accused of ambition in presenting this 
measure — ambition, inordinate ambition. If I had thought 
of myself only, I should have never brought it forward. I 
know well the perils to which I expose myself — the risk of 
alienating faithful and valued friends, with but little pros- 
pect of making new ones, if any new ones could compensate 
for the I0.SS of those we have long tried and loved; and 
I know well the honest misconception both of friends and 
foes. Ambition? If I had listened to its soft and seducing 
whispers — if I had yielded myself to the dictates of a cold, 
calculating, and prudential policy, I would have stood still 
and unmoved. I might even have silently gazed on the 
raging storm, enjoyed its loudest thunders, and left tho.«:c 
who are charged with the care of the vessel of state to con- 
duct it as they could. 

2. I have been, heretofore, often unjustly accused of am- 
bition. Low, groveling souls, who are utterly incapable of 
elevating themselves to the higher and nobler duties of pure 
patriotism — beings who, forever keeping their own selfish 
ends in view, decide all public measures by their presumed 
influence or their aggrandizement — ^judge me by the venal 
rule which they prescribe to themselves. I have given to 
the winds those false accusations, as I consign that which 
now impearhps my Ttintivp- T hnvr no do>irp for nfliro. not 


even the bighest. The most exalted is but a prison, in whielk 
the incarcerated incumbent daily receives his cold, heartless 
visitants, marks his weary hours, and is cut off from the 
practical enjoyment of all the blessings of genuine free- 

3. I am DO candidate for any office in the gift of the peo- 
ple of these States, united or separated; I never wish, never 
expect to be. Pass this bill, tranquilize the country, restore 
confidence and affection in the Union, and I am willing to 
go home to Ashland, and renounce public service forever. 
I should there find, in its groves, under its shades, on its 
lawns, mid my flocks and herds, in the bosom of ray family^ 
cincerity and truth, attachment and fidelity, and gratitude, 
which I have not always found in the walks of public life. 
Yes, I have ambition ; but it is the ambition of being the 
humble instrument, in the hands of Providence, to reconcile 
a divided people; once more to revive concord and harmony 
in a distracted land — the pleasing ambition of contemplating 
the glorious spectacle of a free, united, prosperous, and 
fraternal people ! 



1. Sir, I see no wisdom in making this provision for 
future changes. You must give governments time to ope- 
rate on the people, and give the people time to become 
gradually assimilated to their institutions. Almost any 
thing is better than this state of perpetual uncertainty. A 
people may have the best form of government that the wit 
of man ever devised ; and yet, from its uncertainty alone, 
may, in effect, live under the worst government in the 
world. Sir, how often must I repeat, that change is not 
reform. I am willing that this new constitution shall stand 
as long as it is possible for it to stand, and that, believe me, 
is a very short time. 

2. Sir, it is vain to deny it. They may say what they 
please about the old constitution — the defect is not there 
It is not in the form of the old edifice, neither in the 


design nor the elevation ; it is in the material — it is in the 
people of Virginia. To ray knowledge that people are 
uhanged from what they have been. The four hundred 
men who went out to David were in debt. The partisans 
of Caesar were in debt. The fellow-laborers of Catiline 
were in debt. And I defy you to show me a desperately 
Indebted people any where who can bear a regular, sober 
^:>vernment. I throw the challenge to all who hear me. 
I say that the character of the good old Virginia planter — 
the man who owned from five to twenty slaves, or less, who 
lived b} hard work, and who paid his debts, is passed away. 
A new order of things is come. The period has arrived 
of living by one's wits — of living by contracting debts that 
one can not pay — and above all, of living by office-hunting, 

3. Sir, what do we see? Bankrupts — branded bankrupts 
— giving great dinners — sending their children to the most 
expensive schools — giving grand parties — and just as well 
received as any body in society. I say, that in such a state 
of thiugs the old constitution was too good for them; they 
could not bear it. No, sir — they could not bear a free- 
hold suffrage and a property representation. 

4. I have always endeavored to do the people justice; but 
I will not flatter them — I will not pander to their appetite 
for change. 1 will do nothing to provide for change. I 
will not agree to any rule of future apportionment, or to 
any provision for future changes, called amendments, to the 
constitution. They who love change — who delight in pub- 
lic confusion — who wish to feed the caldron, and make it 
bubble — may vote if they please for future changes. But 
by what spell — by what formula are you going to bind the 
people to all future time? You may make what entries 
upon parchment you please. Give me a constitution that 
will last for half a century — that is all I wish for. No 
oonstitution that you ran make will last the one-half of 
half a century. 

5. Sir, I will stake any thing abort of my salvation, that 
those who are malcontent now, will be more malcontent 
three years hence than they are at this day. 1 have no 
favor for tin- *""^':t(ition -I sliall vote against its adop- 


tion, and 1 shall advise all the people of my district to set 
their faces — ay — and their shoulders against it. But if we 
are to have it — let us not have it with its death-warrant in 
its very face, with the Sardonic grin of death upon its 
countenance. .tohv hanooi^ph. 

CVllI.— IGNOKA.Ni i. i:> ulK i^uuiMivi A CRIME. 

1 In all the dungeons of the old world, where the strong 
champions of freedom are now pining in captivity beneath 
the remorseless power of the tyrant, the morning sun does 
not send a glimmering ray into their cells, nor does night 
draw a thicker vail of darkness between them and the 
world, but the lone prisoner lifts his iron -laden arms to 
heaven in prayer, that we, the depositaries of freedom and 
of human hopes, may be faithful to our sacred trust ; 
while, on the other hand, the pensioned advocates of des- 
potism stand, with listening ear, to catch the first sound of 
lawless violence that is wafted from our shores, to note th« 
first breach of faith or act of perfidy among us, and to 
convert them into arguments against liberty and the rights 
of man. 

2. There is not a shout sent up by an insane mob, on 
this side of the Atlantic, but it is echoed by a thousand 
presses, and by ten thousand tongues, along every moun- 
tain and valley on the other. There is not a conflagration 
kindled here by the ruthless hand of violence, but its 
flame glares over all Europe, from horizon to zenith. On 
each occurrence of a flagitious scene, whether it be an act 
of turbulence and devastation, or a deed of perfidy or 
breach of faith, monarchs point them out as fruits of the 
growth and omens of the fate of republics, and claim for 
themselves and their heirs a further extension of the lease 
of despotism. 

3. The experience of the ages that are past, the hopes of 
the ages that are yet to come, unite their voices in an ap- 
peal to us ; they implore us to think more of the character 
of our people than of its numbers ; to look upon our vast 

8BNAT0RIAL. 268 

naldidl le^ourccs, not as tempters t(j ostentation and pride, 
but as a means to be converted, by the refining alchemy 
of education, into mental and spiritual treasures; they 8up- 
plicate us to seek for whatever complacency or self-satisfac- 
tion we arc disposed to indulge, not in the extent of oiir 
territory, or in the products of our soil, but in the expan- 
sion and perpetuation of the means of human happiness ; 
they beseech us to exchange the luxuries of sense for the 
joys of charity, and thus give to the world the example of 
a nation whose wisdom increases with its prosperity, and 
whose virtues are equal to its power. For these ends they 
enjoin upon us a more earnest, a more universal, a more 
religious devotion to oar exertions and resources, to the 
culture of the youthful mind and heart of the nation. 
Their gathered voices assert the eternal truth, that, in a 
republic^ ignorance is a crime ; and that private immorality 
i-i not less an opprobrium to the state than if is guilt in the 
prrpetrator. H. MANN. 


1. I SMALL resist all encroachments on the constitution, 
whether it be the encroachment of this government on the 
States, or the opposite — the executive on congress, or con- 
gress on the executive. My creed is, to hold both govern- 
ments, and all the departments of each, to their proper 
sphere, and to maintain the authority of the laws and the 
constitution, against all revolutionary movements. I be- 
lieve the means which our system furnishes to preserve 
itaelf are ample, if fairly understood and applied ; and I 
shall resort to them, however corrupt and disordered the 
times. 80 long as there is hope of reforming the govern- 

2. The result is in the hands of the Disposer of events. 
It is my part to do my duty. Yet, while I thus openly 
avow myself a conservative, God forbid I should ever deny 
the glorious right of rebellion and revolution ! Should 
oorrnpt''>v -■ -! r>v •,- : •• » intolerable, an«l <*:in not 


otherwise be thrown off — if liberty must perish, or the 
jrovernment be overthrown — I would not hesitate, at the 
hazard of life, to resort to revolution, and to tear down a 
corrupt government, that could neither be reformed nor 
borne by freemen. But I trust in God that thinj;s will 
never come to that pass. I trust never to see such fearful 
times; for fearful indeed they would be. if they should ever 
befall us. It is the last remedy, and not to be thought of 
till common sense and the voice of mankind would justify 
the resort. .1. c rALiiorN. 


1. We are apt to treat the idea of our own corruptibil- 
ity as utterly visionary, and to ask, with a grave affectation 
of dignity — what! do you think a member of congress can 
be corrupted ? Sir, I speak what I have long and delibe- 
rately considered, when I say, that since man was created, 
there never been a political body on the face of the 
earth, that would not be corrupted under the same circum- 
stances. Corruption steals upon us in a thousand insid- 
ious forms, when we are least aware of its approaches. 

2. Of all the forms, in which it can present itself, the 
bribery of office is the most dangerous, because it assumes 
the guise of patriotism to accomplish its fatal sorcery. 
We are often asked, where is the evidence of corruption ? 
Have you seen it? Sir, do you expect to see it? You 
might as well expect to see the embodied forms of pesti- 
lence and famine stalking before you, as to see the latent 
operations of this insidious power. We may walk amid 
it, and breathe its contagion, without being conscious of its 

3. All experience teaches us the irresistible power of 
temptation, when vice assumes the form of virtue. The 
great enemy of mankind could not have consummated his 
infernal scheme, for the seduction of our first parents, but 
for the disguise in which he presented himself. Had he 
appeared as the devil, in his proper form — had the speai 


of Ithuriel disclosed the naked deformity of the fiend of 
hell, the inhabitants of paradise would have shrunk with 
horror from his presence. 

4. But he came as the insinuating serpent, and presented 
a beautiful apple, the most delicious fruit in all the garden. 
lie told his glowing story to the unsuspecting victim of 
his guile — "It can bo no crime to taste of this delightful 
fruit"— it will disclose to you the knowledge of good and 
evil — it will raise you to an equality with the angels." 

5. Such, sir, was the process ; and, in this simple, but 
impressive narrative, we have the most beautiful and philo- 
sophical illustration of the frailty of man, and the power 
of temptation, that could possibly be exhibited. Mr. Chair- 
man, I have been forcibly struck with the similarity be- 
tween our present situation and that of Eve, after it was 
announced that Satan was on the borders of paradise. 
We, too, have been warned, that tlie enemy is on our 

G. But God foruid that the similitude should be carried 
any further. Eve, conscious of her innocence, sought 
temptation and defied it. The catastrophe is too fatally 
known to us all. She went " with the blessings of heaven 
on. her head, and its purity in her heart," guarded by the 
ministry of angels — she returned covered with shame, under 
the heavy denunciation of heaven's everlasting curse. 

7. Sir, it is innocence that temptation conquers. If our 
first parent, pure as she came from the hand of God, was 
overcome by the seductive power, let us not imitate her 
fatal rashness, seeking temptation when it is in our power 
to avoid it. Let us not vainly confide in our own infalli- 
bility. Wo are liable to bo corrupted. To an ambitious 
man, an honorable oflSce will appear as beautiful and fa.«> 
oinatiiig as the apple of paradise. 

8. I admit, sir, that ambition is a passion, at once the 
most powerful and the most useful. Without it human 
afiairs would become a mere stagnant pool. By means of 
his patronage, the President addresses himself in the most 
irrcnistiblc manner, to this the noblest and strongest of our 
passions. All thnt tho iinai;inution can desire — honor, 

KiDD.— 2;s 


power ease, are held out as the temptation. Man 

was noL .w...v^ to resist such temptation. It is impossible 
to conceive, Satan himself could not devise, a system which 
would more infallibly introduce corruption and death into 
our political Eden. Sir, the angels fell from heaven with 
less temptation. m'duppie. 

CXI.— j:\i ..:>.-! v':> v>r iiti. umOi.Lic. 

1. In the errand and steady progress of the Kepublic. tiie 
career of duty ;i:i'l usefulness will be run by all its children, 
under a constantly increasing excitement. The voice, which, 
in the morning of life, shall awaken the patriotic sympathy 
of the land, will be echoed back by a community, incalcu- 
lably swell' '1 '<> '1^ 1'^ proportions, before that voice shall 
be hushed 

2. The wnlcr, by whom the noble features of our scenery 
shall be sketched with a glowing pencil, the traits of our 
romantic early history gathered up with filial zeal, and the 
peculiarities "' :• character seized with delicate perception, 
can not ni entirely and rapidly to success, but that 
ten years will add new millions to the numbers of his 
readers. The American statesman, the orator, whose voice 
is already heard in its supremacy, from Florida to Maine, 
whose intellectual empire already extends beyond the limits 
of Alexander's, has yet new states and new nations, starting 
mto bcini:. tlie willing tributaries t^ liis .-way. 

3. The wilderness, which one year is impassable, is tra- 
Tcrsed the next by the caravans of the industrious emigrants, 
who go to follow the setting sun with the language, the in- 
stitutions, and the arts of civilized life. It is not the ir- 
ruption of wild barbarians, sent to visit the wrath of God 
on a degenerate empire ; it is not the inroad of disciplined 
banditti, marshaled by the intrigues of ministers and kings. 
It is the human family, let out to possess its broad patri- 
mony. The states and nations, which are springing up in 
the valley of the distant west, are bound to us by the dear- 
est ties of a common language, a common government, and 
ft common descent. 


4. Who, then, can forget that this extension of our ter- 
ritorial limits, is the extension of the empire of all we hold 
dear; of our laws, of our character, of the memory of our 
ancestors, of the great achievments in our history? Whith- 
ersoever the sous of the original states shall wander, to 
Fouthern or western climes, they will send back their hcaTta 
to the rocky shores, the battle fields, and the intrepid coun- 
cils of the Atlantic coast. These are placed beyond Iba 
reach of vicissitude. They have become already matter of 
history, of poetry, of eloquence. 



1. England may as well dam up the waters of the Nile 
with bulrushes, as to fetter the step of freedom, more proud 
and firm in this youthful land, than where she treads the 
sequestered glens of Scotland, or couches herself among the 
magnificent mountains of Switzerland. Arbitrary principles, 
like those against which we now contend, have cost one king 
of England his life, another his crown, and they may yet 
cost a third his most flourishing colonies. 

2. Some have sneeringly asked, '* Are the Americans too 
poor to pay a few pounds on stamped paper?" No I Amer- 
ica, thanks to God and herself, is rich. But the right to 
take ten pounds, implies the right to take a thousand ; and 
what must be the wealth, that avarice, aided by power, can 
not exhaust I True, the specter is now small ; but the 
shadow he casts before him is huge enough to darken all 
this fair land Others, in sentimental style, talk of the im- 
mense debt of gratitude which we owe to England. And 
what is the amount of this debt? Why, truly it is the same 
that the young lion owes to the dam, which has brought it 
forth on the solitude of the monnt-MM - v '<-♦' <> •">:■! ♦he 
winds and storms of the desert 

3. We plunged into the wave, with the great ciiarter of 
freedom in our teeth, because the fagot and torch were be- 
hind us. We have waked the new world from its savage 
lethariry: forests havo bfi-n prostrated in our path: towns 


and cities have grown up suddenly as the flowers of th« 
tropics, and the fires iu our autumnal woods are scarcely 
more rapid than the increase of our wealth and population. 
And do we owe all this to the kind succor of the mother 
country? Nol we owe it to the tyranny that drove us from 
her, to the pelting storms which invigorated our helplcM 


1. Gentlemen, I have no objection to the most ex- 
tended and free discussion upon doctrinal points of the 
Christian religion ; and, though the law of England does 
not permit it, I do not dread the reasonings of deists 
against the existence of Christianity itself, because, as it 
was said by its divine author, if it be of God, it will stand. 
An intellectual book, however erroneous, addressed to the 
intellectual world upon so profound and complicated a sub- 
ject, can never work the mischief it is calculated to repress. 
Such works will only incite the minds of men, enlightened 
Dy study, to a closer investigation of a subject well worthy 
of their deepest and continued contemplation. The pow- 
ers of the mind are given for human improvement in the 
progress of human existence. The changes produced by 
such reciprocations of lights and intelligences are certain 
in their progression, and make their way imperceptibly by 
the final and irresistible power of truth. 

2. If Christianity be founded in falsehood, let us become 
deists in this manner, and I am contented. But thTfe book 
has no such object and no such capacity ; it presents no 
arguments to the wise and enlightened ; on the contrary, 
it treats the faith and opinions of the wisest with the most 
ghorking contempt, and stirs up men, without the advan- 
tages of learning or sober thinking, to a total disbelief of 
every thing hitherto held sacred ; and consequently to a 
rejection of all the laws and ordinances of the State, which 
stand only upon the assumption of their truth. 

3. Gentlemen, I can not conclude without expressing the 


deepest regret at all the attacks upon the Christian religion 
by authors who profess to promote the civil liberties of the 
world. For under what other auspices than Christianity 
have the lost and subverted liberties of mankind in former 
ages been reasserted ? By what zeal, but the warm zeal 
of devout Christians, have English liberties been redeemed 
and consecrated? Under what other sanctions, even in 
our own days, have liberty and happiness been spreading 
to the uttermost corners of the earth? What work of civ- 
ilization, what commonwealth of greatness, has this bald 
religion of nature ever established? 

4. We see, on the contrary, those nations that have no 
other light than that of nature to direct them, sunk in bar- 
barism, or slaves to arbitrary governments; while under the 
Christian dispensation the great career of the world has 
been slowly but clearly advancing, lighter at every step, 
from the encouraging prophecies of the Gospel, and lead- 
ing, I trust, in the end, to universal and eternal happiness. 
Each generation of mankind can see but a few revolving 
links of this mighty and mysterious chain ; but by doing 
our several duties in our alloted stations, we are sure that 
we are fulfilling the purposes of our existence. 



1. IIas the gentleman done? has he completely done? 
He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of 
his speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was 
not a violation of the privileges of the house. But I did 
not call him to order — why? because the limited talents of 
some men render it impossible for them to bo severe with- 
out being unniiliaiMcntary. But before I sit down, 1 shal. 
ehow him li severe and parliamentary at the same 

2. On any other occasion, I should think myself justifi 
able in treating with silent contempt any thing which might 
fall from that honornblf member; but thero nr(! limes when 

ignificanr accuser is lo- magnitude 


of the accusation. I know tho difficulty the honorable gen- 
tleman labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, 
on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, 
there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The 
public would not believe the charge. 1 despise the false- 
hood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I 
would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit 
down. But I shall first reply to it, when not made by an 
honest man. 

3. The right honorable gentleman has called me 'an 
unimpeached traitor." I ask why not *' traitor," unquali- 
fied by an epithet? I will tell him — it was because he 
durst not. It was the act of a coward who raises his arm 
to strike, but has not the courage to give the blow. I will 
not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, 
and he is a privy counselor. I will not call him fool, be- 
cause he happens to be chancellor of the exchequer. But 
I say, he is one who has abused the privilege of parlia- 
ment, and freedom of debate, by uttering language, which, 
if spoken out of the house, I should answer only with a 
blow. I care not how high his situation, how low his 
character, how contemptible his speech ; whether a privy 
counselor or a parasite — my answer would be a blow. 

4. He has charged me with being connected with tho 
rebels. The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. 
Docs the honorable gentleman rely on the report of the 
house of lords for the foundation of his assertion ? If he 
does, I can prove to the committee, that there was a physical 
impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to 
answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a political 
coxcomb, or whether he brought himself into power by a 
false glare of courage or not. grattan. 


1. Mr. President, public men must certainly be allowed 
to change their opinions, and their associations,^whencver 
they see fit. No one doubts this. Men may have grown 
wiser — they may have attained to better and more correct 


views of great public subjects. Nevertheless, sir, it must 
be acknowledged, that what appears to be a sudden, as well 
as a great change, naturally produces a shock. I confess, 
for one, I was shocked, when the honorable gentleman, at 
the last session, espoused this bill of the administration. 
Sudden movements of the affections, whether personal or 
folitical, are a little out of nature. 

2. Several years ago, sir, some of the wits of England 
wrote a mock play, intended to ridicule the unnatural and 
false feeliog — the sentimentality of a certain German school 
of literature. In this play two strangers were brought to- 
gether at an inn. While they are warming themselves at 
the fire, and before their acquaintance is yet five minutes 
old, one springs up and exclaims to the other, " A sudden 
thought strikes me! — let us swear an eternal friendship!" 

3. This affectionate offer was instantly accepted, and the 
friendship duly sworn, unchangeable and eternal ! Now, 
sir, how long this eternal friendship lasted, or in what 
manner it ended, those who wish to know may learn by 
referring to the play. But it seems to me, sir, that the 
honorable member has carried his political sentimentality a 
good deal higher than the flight of the German school ; 
for he appears to have fallen suddenly in love, not with 
strangers, but with opponents. Here we all had been, sir, 
contending against the progress of executive power, and 
more particularly, and most strenuously against the projects 
and experiments of the administration upon the currency. 
The honorable member stood among us, not only as an 
associate, but as a leader. We thought we were making 
some headway. The people appeared to be coming to our 
support and our assistance. The country had been roused; 
every successive election weakening the strength of the ad* 
rersary, and increasing our own. 

4. Wo were in this career of success, carried strongty 
forward by the current of public opinion, and only needed 
CO hear the cheering voice of the honorable member— 

"Once more to the breach, dear fViends, once morel" 

tnd we should have prostrated, forever, this anti-constiin 


tional, anti-commercial, anti-republican, and anti-American 
policy of the administration. But, instead of these encour- 
aging and animating accents, behold! in the very crisis of 
our affairs, on the very eve of victory, the honorable mem- 
her cries out to the enemy — not to us, his allies, but to the 
enemy — " Holloa ! a sudden thought strikes me ! — I aban- 
don my allies ! Now I think of it, they have always been 
my oppressors ! I abandon them ; and now let you and me 
swear an eternal friendship!" 

5. Such a proposition, from such a quarter, sir, was not 
likely to be long withstood. The other party was a little 
coy, but, upon the whole, nothing loath. After a proper 
hesitation, and a little decorous blushing, it owned the soft 
impeachment, admitted an equally sudden sympathetic im- 
pulse on its own side ; and, since few words are wanted 
where hearts are already known, the honorable gentleman 
takes his place among his new friends, amid greetings and 
caresses, and is already enjoying the sweets of an eternal 
friendship. webster. 


1. Before I come to the last magnificent paragraph, let 
me call the attention of those who, possibly, think them- 
selves capable of judging of the dignity and character of 
justice in this country — let me call the attention of thos< 
who, arrogantly perhaps, presume that they understand whai 
the features, what the duties of justice are here and in India 
— let them learn a lesson from this great statesman, this en- 
larged, this liberal philosopher : " I hope I shall not depart 
from the simplicity of official language, in saying, that the 
majesty of justice ought to be approached with solicitation, 
not descend to provoke or invite it, much less to debase 
itself by the suggestion of wrongs, and the promise of re- 
dress, with the denunciation of punishment before trial, and 
even before accusation." This is the exhortation Mr. Hus- 
tings makes to his counsel. This is the character *which he 
gives o^ British justice. 


2. But I will ask your lordships, do you ayprove this 
cprcsentation ? Do you feel that this is the true image of 

justice? Is this the character of British justice? Aro 
these her features? Is this her countenance? Is this her 
gait or her mien ? No ; I think even now I hear you calling 
upon me to turn from this vile libel, this base caricature, 
this Indian pagod, formed of guilty and knavish tyranny 
to dupe the heart of ignorance — to turn from this deformed 
idol, to the true majesty of justice here. Here, indeed, I 
see a different form, enthroned by the sovereign hand of 
freedom — awful, without severity — commanding, without 
pride — vigilant and active, without restlessness or suspicion 
— searching and inquisitive, without meanness or debase- 
ment — not arrogantly scorning to stoop to the voice of af- 
flicted innocence, and in its loveliest attitude when bend- 
ing to uplift the suppliant at its feet. 

3. It is by the majesty, by the form of that justice, that 
I do conjure and implore your lordships to give your minds 
to this great business; that I exhort you to look, not so 
much to words, which may be denied or quibbled away, but 
to the plain facts — to weigh and consider the testimony in 
your own minds ; we know the result must be inevitable. 
Let the truth appear, and our cause is gained. It is this, 
I conjure your lordship, for your own honor, for the honor 
of the nation, for the honor of human nature, now entrusted 
to your care — it is this duty that the commons of England, 
speaking through us, claim at your hands. 

4. They exhort you to it by every thing that calls sub- 
limely upon the heart of man — by the majesty of that 
justice which this bold man has libeled — by the wide fame 
of your own tribunal — by the sacred pledge by which you 
swear in the solemn hour of decision ; knowini: that that 
decision will then bring you the highest reward that ever 
blessed the heart of man — the consciousness of having 
done the greatest act of mercy for the world, that the 
earth has ever yet received from any hand but hearen 
My lords, I have done. 




1. iSiR, if there is any spectacle from the contemplation 
ol' which I would shrink with peculiar horror, it would be 
that of the great mass of the American people sunk into a 
profound apathy on the subject of their highest political 

nlcrests. Such a spectacle would be more portentous to the 
eye of intelligent patriotism, than all the monsters of th« 
earth, and fiery signs of the heavens, to the eye of trembling 
iuperstition. If the people could be indiflfcrent to the fate 
of a contest for the presidency, they would be unworthy of 
freedom. If I were to perceive them sinking into this apathy, 
I would even apply the power of political galvanism, if such 
a power could be found, to rouse them from their fatal le- 

2. Keep the people quiet ! Peace ! peace 1 Such are the 
whispers by which the people are to be lulled to sleep, in 
the very crisis of their highest concerns. Sir, " you make 
a solitude, and call it peace!" Peace? 'Tis death! Take 
away all interest from the people, in the election of their 
chief ruler, and liberty is no more. What, sir, is to be the 
consequence? If the people do not elect the president, 
somebody must. There is no special providence to decide 
the question. Who, then, is to make the election, and how 
will it operate? You throw a general paralysis over the 
body politic, and excite a morbid action in particular mem- 
bers. The general patriotic excitement of the people, in 
relation to the election of the president, is as essential to 
the health and energy of the political system, as circulation 
of the blood is to the health and energy of the natural 
body. Check that circulation, and you inevitably produce 
local inflammation, gangrene, and ultimately death. 

3. Make the people indifferent, destroy their legitimate 
influence, and you communicate a morbid violence to the 
eff"orts of those who are ever ready to assume the control 
of such afi'airs — the mercenary intriguers and interested 
oflice-hunters of the country. Tell me not, sir, of popular 
violence ! Show me a hundred political factionists — men 
who look to the election of a president as the means of grat- 
ifying their high or their low ambition — and I will show 


jvu ibo ^cry materials for a mob; ready for any desperate 
artvonture connected with their common fortunes. The 
reason of this extraordinary excitement is obvious. It is a 
matter of self-interest, of personal ambition. The people 
can have no such motives. They look only to the interest 
BDd glory of the country. 



1. I ASK now, Verres, what have you to advance against 
this charge? Will you pretend to deny it? Will you pre- 
tend that any thing false, that even any thing exaggerated 
is alleged against you? Had any prince, or any state, com- 
mitted the same outrage against the privileges of Roman 
citizens, should we not think we had sufficient reason for 
declaring immediate war against them? What punishment, 
then, ought to be inflicted on a tyrannical and wicked pre- 
tor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, within 
sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of 
crucifixion that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Publius 
Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege 
of citizenship, and declared bis intention of appealing to 
the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor, who 
had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, whence he 
bad just made his escape? The unhappy man, arrested as 
he was going to embark for his native country, is brought 
before the wicked pretor. With eyes darting fury, and a 
countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless 
victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brought ; 
accusing him, but without the least shadow of evidence, or 
even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. 

2. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, " I am 
a Roman citizen, I have served under Lucius Pretius, who 
is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence." The 
bloodthirsty pretor, deaf to all he could urge in his own 
dr>frn<:o. nrilnrod the infamous punishment to be inflicted. 

IS an innocent Roman citizen publicly man 


gled with scourging; while the only words he uttered amid 
his cruel sufferings were, *' I am a Roman citizen !" With 
these he hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy. 
But of so little service was this privilege to him, that while 
he was asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his 
execution — for his execution upon the cross ! 

3. O liberty ! sound once deliglitful to every Roman 
ear I sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! once sacred, 
now trampled upon ! But what then — is it come to this ? 
Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his power 
of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of 
Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red-hot plates of 
iron, and at last put to the infamous death of the cross, a 
Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence ex- 
piring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the 
majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the 
justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton 
cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes 
at the root of liberty and sets mankind at defiance? 



1. How far wilt thou, Catiline, abuse our patience? 
How long shall thy madness outbrave our justice? To what 
extremities art thou resolved to push thy unbridled inso- 
lence of guilt ! Canst thou behold the nocturnal arms that 
watch the palatium, the guards of the city, the consternation 
of the citizens ; all the wise and worthy clustering into con- 
sultation ; this impregnable situation of the seat of the 
senate, and the reproachful looks of the fathers of Rome? 
35anst thou, I say, behold all this, and yet remain undaunted 
and unabashed? Art thou sensible that thy measures are 
detected ? 

2. Art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly in- 
formed, comprehend the full extent of thy guilt? Point 
me out the senator ignorant of thy practices, during the 
last and the preceding night : of the T)lace where you met, 


the company you summoned, and the crime you concerted. 
The senate is conscious, the consul is witness to this : yet 
mean and degenerate — the traitor lives ! Lives! did I say? 
He mixes with the senate ; he shares in our counsels ; with 
a steady eye he surveys us; he anticipates his guilt; he en- 
joys his murderous thoughts, and coolly marks us out for 
bloodshed. Yet we, boldly passive in our country's cause, 
think we act like Romans if we can escape his frantic rage. 

3. Long since, Catiline! ought the consul to have 
doomed thy life a forfeit to thy country ; and to have di- 
rected upon thy own head the mischief thou hast long been 
meditating for ours. Could the noble Scipio, when sovereign 
pontiff, as a private lloraan kill Tiberius Gracchus for a 
slight encroachment upon the rights of this country; and 
shall we, her consuls, with persevering patience endure Cat- 
iline, whose ambition is to desolate a devoted world with 
fire and sword? 

4. There was — there was a time, when such was the spirit 
of Rome, that the resentment of her magnanimous sons 
more sternly crushed the Roman traitor, than the most in- 
veterate enemy. Strong and weighty, Catiline ! is the 
decree of the senate we can now produce against you; neither 
wisdom is wanting in this state, nor authority in this as- 
sembly ; but we, the consuls, we are defective in our duty. 


v.AA. — ui-.tiiiA r,u.vv/i yjr AiHENS. 

1. Sl(I1, 0, men of Athens! were your ancestors: so 
glorious in the eye of the world ; so bountiful and munifi- 
cent to their country ; so sparing, so modest, so self-deny 
ing, to themselves. What resemblance can we find, in the 
present generation, to these great men? At the time when 
your ancient competitors have left you a clear stage, when 
the Lacedemonians arc disabled, the Thebans employed in 
troubles of their own, when no other state whatever is in a 
condition to rival or molest you — in short, when you are 
at full liberty, when you have the opportunity and the powet 


to become once more the sole arbiters of Greece — you per. 
mit, patiently, whole provinces to be wrested from you ; you 
lavish the public money in scandalous and obscure uscsj 
you suffer your allies to perish in time of peace, whom you 
praserved in time of war ; and, to sum up all, you yourselves, 
by your mercenary court, and servile resignation to the will 
and pleasure of designing, insidious leaders, abet, cncour- 
•go, and strengthen, the most dangerous and formidable of 
your enemies. Yes, Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves 
are the contrivers of your own ruin. 

2. Lives there a man who has confidence enough to deny 
it? Let him arise and assign, if he can, any other cause 
of the success and prosperity of Philip. " But," you reply, 
** what Athens may have lost in reputation abroad she has 
gained in splendor at home. Was there ever a greater ap- 
pearance of prosperity and plenty? Is not the city en- 
larged? Are not the streets better paved, houses repaired 
and beautified?" Away with such trifles! Shall I be paid 
with counters? An old square new vamped up! a fountain! 
an aqueduct! Are these acquisitions to boast of? Cast 
your eyes upon the magistrate under whose ministry you 
boast these precious improvements. Behold the despicable 
creature, raised all at once from dirt to .opulence, from the 
lowest obscurity to the highest honors. Have not some of 
these upstarts built private houses and seats vying with the 
most sumptuous of our public palaces? And how have their 
fortunes and their power increased, but as the common- 
wealth has been ruined and impoverished? 



1. The sole object of proclaiming to the American peo- 
ple the unutterable character of this law, was to quiet the 
fearful agitation that then ever}^ where prevailed. What, 
sir, were the happy, the glorious eflfects of that compromise? 
The day before that law received the president's approval 
was overcast with the gathering cloud of civil war, deepen- 

8BNAT0KIAL. 279 

ing, spreading, and blackening every hour. The ground 
on which we stood seemed to heave and quake with the 
first throes of a convulsion that was to rend in fragments 
the last republic on earth. 

2. Are we prepared now to break the bonds of peace and 
renew the war? I have said you have the power to do so, 
but I deny your right. I do not measure that right by the 
standard of law in a municipal court. I can not conceive 
any idea more ridiculous or contemptible, than that which 
finds no standard of moral and political duties and rights 
for a Christian, a private gentleman, or a statesman, except 
that which is applicable to a contest before a justice's court, 
or a nisi jyriiis jury. No, sir, I appeal to a law in the 
bosom of man prior and paramount to this. I appeal to 
the South, where I know that law will be obeyed, and Avhere 
[ know I do not appeal in vain. I invoke its character- 
istic chivalry ; I summon to my aid that sensitive honor 
which feels a "stain like a wound," which abhors deception 
and shudders at violated faith. 

3. Will that South, which I am sure I have truly de- 
scribed, join in this odious infraction of its own treaty, and 
unite in this miserable war against the laboring thousands 
who have their all in its securities? — a war not waged with 
open force and strong hand — a war not waged to avenge 
insulted honor, but to recover the diflference between five 
and ten cents duty upon a yard of cotton. I repeat, will 
they engage in such a war? Your approach to this battle 
is not heralded by the trumpet's voice; no, you are to steal 
into the dwelling of the poor, and boldly capture a mechan- 
ic's dinner! You are to march into the cottage of the 
widow and fearlessly confiscntfi the breakfast of a factory 
pirl, for the benefit of the planting and grain growing 
states of this mighty republic ! 

4. How little do they who have presented such argu- 
ments as these, in this report, know of the people of the 
South and West. The hardy race that have subdued the 
forests of the West, and in a green youth have constructed 
monuments of enterprise that shall survive the Pyramids, 
is not likely from merely sordid motives, to join in inflict 


nig a great evil on any portion of our common country. 
The fearless pioneers of the West, whose ears arc as famil- 
iar with the sharp crack of the Indian's rifle, and his wild 
war-whoop at midnight, as are those of your city dan- 
dies with the dulcet notes of the harp and piano — they, 
sir, are not the men to act upon selfish calculations and 
sinister inducements. They hold their rights by law, and 
they believe that compacts, expressed or implied, arising 
from individual engagements or public law, are to be kept 
and defended with their lives, if need be, and not to be 
broken at will, or regarded as the proper spirit of legisla- 
tive or individual caprice. • thos. corwin. 


1. I ROSE not to say one word which should wound the 
feelings of the president. The senator says, that, if placed 
in like circumstances, I would have been the last man to 
avoid putting a direct veto upon the bill, had it met my 
disapprobation ; and he does me the honor to attribute to 
me high qualities of stern and unbending intrepidity. I 
hope, that in all that relates to personal firmness, all that 
concerns a just appreciation of the insignificance of human 
life — whatever may be attempted, to threaten or alarm a soul 
not easily swayed by opposition, or awed or intimidated by 
menace — a stout heart and a steady eye, that can survey, 
unmoved and undaunted, any mere personal perils that 
assail this poor, transient, perishing frame — I may, without 
disparagement, compare with other men. 

2. But there is a sort of courage, which, I frankly con- 
fess I do not possess; a boldness to which I dare not aspire; 
a valor which I can not covet. I can not lay myself down 

n the way of the welfare and happiness of my country. 

That I can not, I have not the courage to do. I can not 
interpose the power with which I may be invested — a power 
conferred, not for my personal benefit, nor for my aggran- 
dizement, but for my country's good — to check her onward 
march to greatness and calory. I have not courage enough 


— r am too cowardly, for that. I would not, I dare not, in 
the exercise of such a trust, lie down, and place my body 
across the path that leads my country to prosperity and 
happiness. This is a sort of courage widely different from 
that which a man may display in his private conduct and 
private relations. Personal or private courage is totally dis- 
tinct from that higher and nobler courage which prompts 
the patriot to offer himself ;i voluntary sacrifice to his 
country's good. 

3. Apprehension of the iuipuiaiioii of the want of firm-" 
ncss sometimes impels to the performance of rash and in- 
considerate acts. It is the greatest courage to be able to 
bear the imputation of the want of courage. But pride, 
vanity, egotism, so unaraiable and offensive in private life, 
arc vices which partake of the character of crimes in the 
conduct of public affairs. The unfortunate victim of these 
passions can not see beyond the little, petty, contemptible 
circle of his own personal interests. All his thoughts are 
withdrawn from his country, and concentrated on his con- 
sistency, his firmness, himself The high, the exalted, the 
sublime emotions of a patriotism, which, soaring toward 
heaven, rises far above all mean, low, or selfish things, and 
is absorbed by one soul-transporting thought of the good 
and the glory of one's country, are never felt in his im- 
penetrable bosom. That patriotism which, catching its in- 
spirations from the immortal God, and leaving at an im- 
measurable distance below all lesser, groveling, personal 
interests and feelings, animates and prompts to deeds of 
self-sacrifice, of valor, of devotion, and of death itself — that 
is public virtue ; that is the noblest, the subliiiioot of all 
public virtues I ueney clat. 


1. The culoginm pronounced on the charMter of the 
itate of South Carolina, by the honorable gentleman, for 
her revolutionary and other merits, meets my hearty con- 

t'ur. MM , r sh.ill tiot acknowledge that tlit^ ^ !.(>rabltf 


member ofore me in rega: latevcr of* distm 

guishcd talents, or distinguisHcd charactiir, South Carolina 
has produced. I claim part of the honor, I partake in the 
pride of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, 
one and all. The Laurenscs, the Rutlcdgcs, the Pinck- 
ncys, the Sumpters, the Marions — Americans all — whose 
fame is no more to be hemmed in by state lines than their 
talents and patriotism were capable of being circumscribed 
within the same narrow limits. In their day and genera- 
tion, they served and honored the country, and the whole 
country ; and their renown is of the treasures of the whole 
country. Him whose honored name the gentleman himself 
bears — does he suppose me less capable of gratitude for his 
patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his eyes 
had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead 
of South Carolina? Sir, does he suppose it is in his power 
to exhibit a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in 
my bosom? No, sir; increased gratification and delight, 

2. Sir, I thank God, that, if I am gifted with little of the 
spirit which is said to be able to raise mortals to the skies, I 
have yet none, as I trust, of that other spirit, which would 
drag angels down. "When I shall be found, sir, in my place 
here in the senate, or elsewhere, to sneer at public merit, be- 
cause it happens to spring up beyond the little limits of my 
own state or neighborhood ; when I refuse, for any such 
cause, or for any cause, the homage due to American talent, 
to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion to liberty and the 
country ; or, if I see an uncommon endowment of heaven 
— if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any son of 
the South — and if, moved by local prejudices, or gangrened 
by state jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair 
from his just character and just fame, may my tongue cleave 
to the roof of my mouth ! Sir, let me recur to pleasing 
recollections ; let me indulge in refreshing remembrance 
of the past ; let me remind you that, in early time?, no 
states cherished greater harmony, both of principle and feel- 
ing, than Massachusetts and South Carolina. Would to 
€rod that harmony might again return ! Shoulder to shoul- 


dci tlioy went through the Kevolution ; hand in hand they 
8tood round the administration of Washington, and felt his 
own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind feeling, 
if it exist — alienation and distrust — are the growth, unnat- 
ural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They 
are weeds, the seeds of which that same great arm never 

3. Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon 
Massachusetts — she needs none. There she is — behold her, 
and judge for yourselves. There is her history — the world 
knows it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is 
Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Ilill — 
and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, 
fallen in the great struggle for Independence, now lie min- 
gled with the soil of every state from New England to Georgia 
— and there they will lie forever. And, sir, where Ameri 
can liberty raised its first voice, and where its youth was 
nurtured and sustained, there it still lives, in the strength 
of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord and 
disunion shall wound it — if- party strife and blind ambition 
shall hawk at and tear it — if folly and madness, if uneasi- 
ness under salutary and necessary restraints, shall succeed 
to separate it from that Union by which alone its existence 
is made sure — it will stand, in the end, by the side of that 
cradle in which its infancy was rocked; it will stretch forth 
it« arm, with whatever vigor it may still retain, over the 
friends who gather round it; and it will fall at last, if fall 
it must, amid the proudest monuments of its own glory, 
und on the very spot of its origin ! WEBSTeV 


1. A GE.NTLEMAN, Mr. President, speaking of Caesar's be- 
nevolent disposition, and of the reluctance with which he 
had entered into the civil war, observes, "How long did ho 
pause upon the brink of the Rubicon?" How came ho to 
the brink of that river I How dared he cross it! Shall 
(•rival* * boundaries of private property 'and 


slial) a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his coun* 
try's rights? How dared he cross that river! Oh, but he 
paused upon the brinlc! lie should have perished upon 
the brink ere he had crossed it! Why did he pause? Why 
does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of 
committing an unlawful deed? Why does the very mur- 
derer, his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye 
taking the measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal 
part? Because of conscience! 'Twas that made Caesar 
pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. Compassion ! What 
compassion? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a 
momentary shudder as his weapon begins to cut! 

2. Caesar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon! What 
was the Rubicon? The boundary of Caesar's province. 
From what did it separate his province? From his country. 
Was that country a desert? No; it was cultivated and fer- 
tile, rich and populous ! Its sons were men of genius, spirit, 
iud generosity I Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, and 
jhaste ! Friendship was its inhabitant! Love was its in- 
habitant! Domestic affection was its inhnbitant! Liberty 
was its inhabitant ! All bounded by the stream of the 
Rubicon ! What was Caesar, that stood upon the bank of 
that stream? A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into 
the heart of that country. No wonder that he paused — no 
wonder if, his imagination wrought upon by his conscience, 
he had beheld blood instead of water, and heard groans 
instead of murmurs ! No wonder, if some gorgon horror 
had turned him into stone upon the spot ! But, no ! — he 
cried, "The die is cast!" He plunged! — he crossed! — and 
Rome was free no more! knowles. 


1. If Napoleon's fortune was great, his genius was trans- 
cendent; decision flashed upon his counsels; and it was the 
same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects, his 
combinations appeared perfectly impossible, his plans per- 
fectly impracticable; but, in his hands, simplicity marked 
their development, and success vindicated their adoption 


2. His person partook the character of his mind — if the 
one never yielded in the cabinet, the other never bent in 
the field. Nature had no obstacles that he did not surmount 
— space no opposition that he did not spurn ; and whether 
amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or polar snows, he 
seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity I 
The whole continent of Europe trembled at beholding the 
audacity of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. 
Skepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; ro- 
mance assumed the air of history ; nor was there aught too 
incredible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when 
the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial 
flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of 
antiquity became common places in his contemplation; 
kings were his people — nations were his outposts ; and he 
disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, 
and cabinets, as if they were the titular dignitaries of the 
chess-board ! 

3. Through the pantomime of his policy, fortune played 
the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, 
beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest thbories took 
the color of his whim, and all that was vcnferable, and all 
that was novel, changed places with the rapidity of a 
drama. Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of 
victory — his flight from Egypt confirmed his destiny — ruin 
itself only elevated him to empire. Amid all these changes 
he stood immutable as adamant. It mattered little whether 
in the field or the drawing room — with the mob or the 
levee — wearing the Jacobin bonnet or the iron crown — 
banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Uapsburg — dictating 
peace on a raft to the czar of Russia, or contemplating de- 
feat at the gallows of Leipsic — ho was still the same mili- 
tary despot! PHILLIPS 


1. If there be on the earth one nation more than auother* 
whoRe institutions must draw their life-blood from the indi- 


vidual purity of its citizens, that nation is our own. Ruler* 
by divine right, and nobles by hereditary succession, may, 
perhaps, tolerate with impunity those depraving indulgeucea 
which keep the great mass abject. Where the many enjoy 
little or no power, it were a trick of policy to wink at those 
enervating vices, which would rob them of both the ability 
and the inclination to enjoy it. But in our country, where 
almost every man, however humble, bears to the omnipo- 
tent ballot-box his full portion of the sovereignty — where at 
regular periods the ministers of authority, who went forth 
to rule, return to be ruled, and lay down their dignities at 
the feet of the monarch multitude — where, in short, public 
sentiment is the absolute lever that moves the political 
world, the purity of the people is the rock of political 

2. We may boast, if we please, of our exalted privileges, 
and fondly imagine that they will be eternal; but when- 
ever those vices shall abound, which undeniably tend to de- 
basement, steeping the poor and ignorant still lower in pov- 
erty and ignorance, and thereby destroying that wholesome 
mental eq&ality which can alone sustain a self-ruled people, 
it will be fourid, by woful experience, that our happy sys- 
tem of government, the best ever devised for the intelligent 
and good, is the very worst to be intrusted to the degraded 
and vicious. The great majority will then truly become a 
many-headed monster, to be tamed and led at will. The 
tremendous power of suffrage, like the strength of the eye- 
less Nazarite, so far from being their protection, will but 
serve to pull down upon their heads the temple their ances- 
tors reared for them. 

3. Caballers and demagogues will find it an easy task to 
delude those who have deluded themselves; and the freedom 
of the people will finally be buried in the grave of their vir- 
tues. National greatness may survive ; splendid talents and 
brilliant honors may fling their delusive luster abroad — these 
may illume the darkness that hangs round the throne of a 
monarch, but their light will be like the baleful flame that 
hovers over decaying mortality, and tells of the corruption 
that festers beneath. Tbc immortal spirit will have gone ; 


and along our shores, and among our hills — those shores 
made sacred by the sepulcher of the pilgrim, those hills 
hallowed by the uncoffined bones of the patriot — even there, 
in the ears of their degenerate descendants, shall ring the 
last knell of departed liberty ! c. sprague. 


1 . Gentlemen : — I address the men who govern us, and 
say to them — Go on, cut off three millions of voters; cut 
off eight out of nine, and the result will be the same to 
you, if it be not more decisive. What you do not cut off, 
is your own fault ; the absurdities of your policy of com- 
pression, your fatal incapacity, your ignorance of the present 
epoch, the antipathy that you feel for it, and that it feejs 
for you ; what you will not cut off, is the times which are 
advancing, the hour now striking, the ascending movement 
of ideas, the gulf opening broader and deeper between your- 
self and the age, between the young generation and you, 
between the spirit of i;i ■>••♦'• n^fl you, between the spirit of 
philosophy and you. 

*2. What you will nut cut off, is this immense fact, that 
the nation goes to one side, while you go to the other; that 
what for you is the sunrise, is for it the sun's setting; that 
you turn your backs to the future, while this great people 
of France, its front all radiant with light from the rising 
dawn of a new humanity, turns its back to the past. Gen- 
tlemen, this law is invalid; it is null ; it is dead even before 
it exists. And do you know what has killed it? It is that, 
when it meanly approaches to steal the vote from the pocket 
of the poor and feeble, it meets the keen, terrible eye of 
the national probity, a devouring light, in which the work 
of darkness disappears. 

3. Yes, men who govern us, at the bottom of every citi 
ten's conscience, the most obscure as well as the greatest, 
at the very depths of the soul — I use your own expression — 
of the last beggar, the last vagabond, there is a sentiment, 
sublime, sacred, insurmountable, indestructible, eternal — 
the sentiment, whir-h is the very essence of tli.> lunnaD 


cunscienco, which the Scriptures call the corDcr-stone of 
justice, is the rock on which iniquities, hypocrisies, bad 
laws, evil designs, bad governments, fall and are shipwrecked. 
This is the hidden, irresistible obstacle vailed in the recesses 
of every mind, but ever present, ever active, on which you 
will always exhaust yourselves ; and which, whatever you 
do, you will never destroy. I warn you, your labor is lost; 
you will not extinguish it, you will not confuse it. Far 
easier to drag the rock from the bottom of the sea, than 
the sentiment of right from the heart of the people ! 



1. The time is now near at hand which must probably 
determine whether Americans are to be freemen or slaves ; 
whether they are to have any property they can call their 
own ; and whether their houses and farms are to be pillaged 
and destroyed, and themselves consigned to a state of wretch- 
edness from which no human efforts will deliver them. The 
fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the 
courage and conduct of this array. Our- cruel and unrelen- 
ting enemy leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, 
or the most abject submission. We have, therefore, to re- 
solve to conquer or to die. 

2. Our own, our country's honor, calls upon us for a 
vigorous and manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully 
fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world. Let us, 
then, rely on the goodness of our cause, and the aid of the 
Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and 
encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all 
our countrymen are now upon us ; and we shall have their 
blessings and praises, if happily we are the instruments of 
saving them from the tyranny meditated against them. Let 
us, therefore, animate and encourage each other, and show 
the whole world that a freeman contending for liberty on 
bis own ground is superior to any slavish mercenary on 


3. Liberty, property, life and honor, are all at stake. 
Upon your courage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleed- 
ing and insulted country. Our wives, children and parents, 
expect safety from us only ; and they have every reason to 
believe that heaven will crown with success so just a cause. 
The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appear- 
ance ; but remember they have been repulsed on various 
occasions by a few brave Americans. Their cause is bad— 
their men are conscious of it ; and, if opposed with firmness 
and coolness on their first onset, with our advantage of 
works, and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most 
assuredly ours. Every good soldier will be silent and at- 
tentive, wait for orders, and reserve his fire until he is sure 
of doing execution. Washington. 


1. I PROFESS, ^«, in my career hitherto, to have kept 
steadily in view, ihe prosperity and honor of the whole 
country, and the preservation of our federal union. It is 
to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consid- 
eration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are 
chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our 
country. That union we reached only by the discipline of 
our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its 
origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate 
commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, 
these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, 
and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its 
duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its 
blessings ; and although our territory has stretched out 
wider and wider, and our population spread farther and far- 
ther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It 
has been to us all a copious fnnDt.iui nf n»finnnl, social, and 
personal happiness. 

2. I have not allowed niyscii, .«ir, to iook beyond the 
anion, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess be- 
hind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving 

KiDD.— UT) 


liberty, wnen the bonds that unite us together shall be 
broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang 
over thQ precipice of disunion, to sec whether, witli my 
short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below j 
nor could I regard him, as a safe counselor in the affairs 
of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent 
on considering, not how the union should be preserved, but 
how tolerable might he the condition of the people, when it 
shall be broken up and destroyed. 

3. While the union lasts we have high, exciting, gratify- 
ing prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. 
Beyond that I seek nut to penetrate the vail. God grant 
that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God 
grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies be- 
hind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the 
last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on 
the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious 
union; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a 
land rent with civil tends, or drenched, it may be, in fra- 
ternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, 
rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now 
known and honored throughout the earth, still full high 
advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original 
luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star ob- 
scured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interroga- 
tory as — What is all this worth? Nor those other words 
of delusion and folly — Liberty first and union afterward ; 
but every where spread all over in characters of living light, 
blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea 
and over the land, in every wind under the whole heavens, 
that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart — 
]iiberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable! 



1. Mr. Speaker : The mingled tones of sorrow, like the 
voice of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state, 
— Massachusetts, weeping for her honored son. The stRt<? 


f have the honor in part to represtot once endured, with 
yours, a common suffering, battled for a common cause, and 
rejoiced in a common triumph. Surely, then, it is meet, that 
in this the day of your affliction, we should mingle our 

2. When a great man falls, the nation mourns ; when a 
patriarch is removed, the people weep. Ours, my associates, 
is no common bereavement. The chain which linked our 
hearts with the gifted spirits of former times has been sud- 
denly snapped. The lips from which flowed those living 
and glorious truths that our fathers uttered are closed in 

3. Yes, my friends. Death has been among us ! lie has 
not entered the humble cottage of some unknown, ignoble 
peasant; he has knocked audibly at the palace of a nation ! 
His footstep has been heard in the halls of state ! He has 
cloven down his victim in the midst of the councils of a 
people. He has borne in triumph from among you the 
gravest, wisest, most reverend head. Ah ! he has taken him 
as a trophy who was once chief over many statesmen, adorned 
with virtue, and learning, and truth; he has borne at his 
chariot wheels a renowned one of the earth. 

4. How often have we crowded into that aisle, and clus- 
tered around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels 
of wisdom as they fell from the lips of the venerable sage, 
we can all remember, for it was but of yester<lay. But what 
a change ! How wondrous I how sudden ! 'Tis like a vision 
of the night. That form which we beheld but a few days 
since, is now cold in death ! 

5. But the last sabbath, and in tliis hall he worshiped 
with others. Now his spirit mingles with the noble army 
of martyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adora- 
tion of the living God. With him, "this is the end of 
earth." He sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. He ia 
gone — and forever! The sun that ushers in t>e morn of 
that next holy day, while it gilds the lofty dome of the 
eapitol, shall rest with soft and mellow light upon the con- 
secrated spot beneath whose turf forever lies the Patriot 
I'atiier and the Patriot Sav.e. i i . iioLMEf 


'2^2 £LOCUTION. 


1. The sufferings of animal nature, occasioned by intem- 
perance, are not to be compared with the moral agonies, 
which convulse the soul. It is an immortal being, who 
sins, and suffers ; and, as his earthly house dissolves, he is 
approaching the judgment-seat, in nnticipation of a mis- 
erable eternity. 

2. lie feels his captivity, and, in anguish of spirit, clanks 
his chain, and cries for help. Conscience thunders, remorse 
goads, and, as the gulf opens before him, he recoils, and 
trembles, and weeps, and prays, and resolves, and promises, 
and reforms, and "seeks it yet again;" again resolves, and 
weeps, and prays, and "seeks it yet again !" 

3. Wretched man ! he has placed himself in the hands of 
a giant, who never pities, and never relaxes his iron gripe. 
lie may struggle, but he is in chains. He may cry for 
release, but it comes not; and lost! lost! may be inscribed 
on the door-posts of his dwelling. 

4. In the meantime, these paroxysms of his dying nature 
decline, and a fearful apathy, the harbinger of spiritual 
death, comes on. His resolution fails, and his mental 
energy, and his vigorous enterprise ; and nervous irritation 
and depression ensue. The social affections lose their full- 
ness and tenderness, and conscience loses its power, and the 
heart its sensibility, until all that was once lovely, and of 
good report, retires and leaves the wretch, abandoned to the 
appetites of a ruined animal. 

5. In this deplorable condition, reputation expires, busi- 
ness falters, and becomes perplexed, and temptations to drink 
multiply, as inclination t) do so increases, and the power of 
resistance declines. An! now the vortex roars, and the 
struggling victim buffets the fiery wave, with feebler stroke, 
and warning supplication, until despair flashes upon his soul, 
and, with an outcry that pierces the heavens, he ceases tc 
strive, and disappears. L. beecuer. 




1. TuE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart ci 

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire ; 
•* I bring thee liere my fortrcss-kej^s, I bring my captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord I — 01 break my father's 

chain !" 

2. "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man, 

this day ! 
Mount thy good horse ; and thou and I will meet him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. 

3. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glitter- 

ing band. 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; 
•* Now haste, Bernardo, haste I for there, in very truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." 

4. Ilis dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's 

hue came and went; 
lie reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismount- 
ing, bent; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — 
What waB there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? 

5. That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped from his like 

Icaii ! 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of the dead! 
A pluniG waved o'er the noble brow — the brow was fixed and 

He met, at last, his father's eyes — but in them was no sight! 

6. Up from the ground he sprang and gazed ; but who coalJ 

paint that gaze? 
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze — 
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; 
For the power was stri«-kon from his arm, niul frntn his lip the 


tlier!" ut length he murmured low, and wept like child- 
hood then : 
Talk not of grief till thou ha«t seen the tears of warlike men ! 
lie thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown — 
[le flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. 

8. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mourn* 

ful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for, now ; 
My king is false — my hope betrayed ! My father — 0! the worth 
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth I 

9. " I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside 

thee, yet! 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then — ^for thee my fields 

were won ; 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son I'' 

10. Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the 

monarch's rein. 
Amid the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train ; 
And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led. 
And sternly set them face to face — the king before the dead: 

11. '* Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to 

— Be still, and gaze thou on, false king I and tell me what is this ? 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give .answer, where are 

—If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this 

cold clay! 

12. " Into these glassy eyes put light — be still ! keep down thine 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth is not my sire — 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was 

shed ! 
Thou canst not? — and a king! — his dust be mountains on thy 

head I" 

13. lie loosed the steed — his slack hand fell — upon the silent face 
lie cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad 

place , 
Qis hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain — 
[lis banner led the spears no more, amid the hills of Spain. 




1 Sirs, yo have heard these knights discourse to you 
Of your ill fortunes, telling on th<?:r fingers 
The worthy leaders ye have lately lost 
True, they were worthy men, most gallant chiefs ; 
And ill would it become us to make light 
Of the great loss we have sufier'd by their fall. 
They died liko heroes ; for no recreant step 
Had e'er dishonored them, no stain of fear, 
No base despiii-, no cowardly recoil. 
They had the hearts of freemen to the last, 
And the free blood that bounded in their veins 
Was shed for freedom with a libei*al joy. 

2. But had they guessed, or cou.M they but have dreamed 
The great examples which they died to show 

Should fall 80 flat, should shine s. fruitless here. 

That men should say, " For liberty these died. 

Wherefore let us be slaves" — had ^hey thought this, 

0, then, with what an agony of shame. 

Their blushing faces buried in tho dust, 

flad their great spirits parted hence for heaven I 

3. What! shall we teach our chroniclers h^ceforth 
To write, that in five bodies wcro "ontained 

The sole brave hearts of Ghent! which five defunct. 

The heartless town, by brainless '^-^unsel led. 

Delivered up her keys, stript off her robes, 

And 80 with all humility besoua;ht 

Her haughty lord that he would scourge her lightly! 

It shall not be — no, verily ! for now. 

Thus looking on you as yo stand before me, 

Mine eye can single out full many a man 

Who lacks but opportunity to shiuo 

As great and glorious as the chiefs that fell. 

4. But, lo ! the carl is " mercifully minded 1" 
And, surely, if we. rather than f-engo 

The slaughter of our bravest, crv them shame, 
And fall upon our knees, and say we 've sinned, 
Then will my lord the earl have mercy on us, 
And pardon us our strike for liberty ! 

5. 0, sirs ! look round you, ie»i ye be deceived ; 
Forgiveness may be spoken with the tonKQO* 


ForgiveDess may be written with the pen, 

But think not that the parchment and mouth pardon 

Will e'er eject old hatreds from the heart 

There's that betwixt you been which men remember 

Till they forget themselves, till all's forgot— 

Till the deep sleep falls on them in that bed 

From which no morrow's mischief rouses them. 

There's that betwixt you been which you yourselves, 

Should ye forget, would then not be yourselves, 

For must it not be thought some base men's souls 

Have ta'en the seats of yours and turned you out 

If, in the coldness of a craven heart. 

Ye should forgive this bloody-minded man 

For all his black and murderous monstrous crimes? 




1. Mr voice is still for war. 

Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate, 

Which^of the two to choose — slavery or death? 

No ! let us rise at once, gird on our swords, 

And, at the head of our remaining troops, 

Attack the foe; break through the thick array 

Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. 

Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest. 

May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. 

2. Rise, fathers, rise ! 't is Rome demands your help ; 
Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, 

Or share their fate ! The slain of half her senate 
Enrich the fields of Thessaly, while we 
Sit here, deliberating in cold debates. 
If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, 
Or wep.r them out in servitude and chains. 
Rouse up, for shame ! Our brothers of Pharsalia 
Point at their wovmds, and cry aloud, "To battle!" 


1. It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well! 
£lse. whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. 


This lunging after immortality 7 

Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 

Of falling into nought? AVhy shrinks the soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us: 

'Tis Heaven itself that points out a hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

2. Eternity I thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
Through what variety of untried being. 

Through what new scenes, and changes, must we pass? 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before nie; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us- 
And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works — lie must delight in virtue, 
And that, which He delights in must be happy. 
But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar 

3. I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 
Thus I am doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 

This, in a moment, brings me to an end ; 
But this, informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt among the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter and the crash of worlds. 



1. Thk train from out the castle drew; 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu — 

"Though something I might 'plain," he said, 
"Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed — 
Part wo in friendship from your land, 
And, noble earl, receive my hand. 


2. But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his aruis, and thus he spoke: 

" My manors, halls and bowers, shall still 

Be open, at my sovereign's will, 

To each one whom he lists, howe'er 

Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 

My castles are my king's alone, 

From turret to foundation-stone — 

Tiie hand of Douglas is his own; 

And never shall in friendly grasp 

The hand of such as Marmion clasp I" 

3. Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fii% 
And shook his very frame for ire. 

And — " This to me !" he said ; 
*' An 't were not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head! 
And first I tell thee, haughty peer, 
lie who does England's message here. 
Although the meanest in her state. 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride. 
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay^, never look upon your lord. 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here. 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied !" 

4. On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; 

Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then. 
To beard the lion in his den — 

The Douglas in his hall? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? 
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms ! — what, warder, ho I 

Let the portcullis fall" 

5. Lord Marmion turned — well was his need — 
And dashed the rowels in his steed; 

Like arrow through the archway sprung. 

i^itAMATIO, ETC. 29P 

Tho ponderous gate behind him rung: 

To pass, there was such scanty room, 

The bars, descending, grazed his plume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies, 

Just as it trembled on tho rise: 

Not lighter does the swallow skim 

Along tho smooth lake's level brim : 

And when lord Marmion reached his band. 

He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 

A shout of loud defiance pours. 

And shakes his gauntlet at the towers ! 


I When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
Tho Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting — 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired. 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound; 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each — for madness ruled the hour — 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

2. First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid — 
And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
Even at the sound himself had made. 

t. Next, Anger rushed: his eyes on fire. 
In lightnings owned his secret stings — 
With one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
And swept with hurried hands the stringa. 

4. With woful measures, wan Despair — 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air: 
Twos sad, by fits — by starts, 'twas wild 


5. But thou, Hope I with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still through all her song: 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Ilope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden haii 

6. And longer bad she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose; 
He threw his bloodstained sword in thunder down. 
And with a withering look. 
The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast, so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe: 
And ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat; 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between 
Dejected Pity at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien ; 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head 

7. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fixed ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state 1 
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed : 
And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate. 

8. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And from her wild sequestered seat. 

In notes by distance made more sweet. 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 

And, dashing soft from rocks around; 

Bubbling runnels joined the sound. 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole. 

Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay. 
Round a holy calm diffusing. 
Love of peace and lonely musing, 

In hollow murmurs died away. 

9. But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. 


Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket mug, 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known! 

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-ejed queen. 

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
• Peeping from forth their alleys green . 

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear. 
And Spor* leaped up, and seized his beecben spear 

]f'' Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial: 
He, with viny crown advancing. 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed: 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best 
They would have thought, who heard the strain, 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, 
Amid the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 
While as his flying fingers kissed the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, 
And he amid his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wing. collin& 


1. Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend me your cars, 
I come to bury Cajsar, not to praise him. 

The evil, that men do, lives after thorn — 
The good is oft inter-red with their bones* 
So, let it be with Caesar! Noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Cajsar was ambitious: 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault; 
And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 

2. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
(For Brutus is an honorable man. 

So are they all, all honorable men,) 
Come I to speak in Cnjsar's funeral — 
He was my friend, fiuthful, and just to me: 
But Brutus says he was ambitious; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 


3. lie hath brought many captives hjiue to Kom«, 
Whoso ransoms did the general coffers fill: 

7>id this, in Caesar, seem ambitious? 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: 

A.mbition should be made of sterner stuff; 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

4. You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
I tlirice presented him a kingly crown, 
Which he did thrice refuse; Mas this ambition? 
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

And sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

5. You all did love him once ; not without cause . 
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? 

judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts. 
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me: 
My heart is in the coffin there, with Caesar; 
And I must pause, till it come back to me. 

But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 

Have stood against the world! now, lies he there, 

And none so poor to do him reverenca 

6. masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong; 
AVho, you all know, are honorable men. 

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 

Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar; 

I foimd it in his closet; 'tis his will. 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

(AVhich pardon me, I do not mean to read,) 

And they would go, and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood — 

Yea, beg a hair of him, for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills ; 

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

7. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle: 1 remember 


The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
'Twos on a summer's evening, in his tent; 
That day ho overcome the Nervii — 
Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through, 
See what a rent the envious Casca made: 
Through this, the well beloved Brutus stabbed. 
And, as he plucked his curs-ed steel awny, 
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it ! 

8. This was the most unkindest cut of all ! 
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 

Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; 

And, in his mantle, muffling up his face, 

Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 

(Which all the while ran blood) great Caesar fell. 

what a fall was there my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
While bloody treason flourished over us. 

9. 0, now you weep; and I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 

Kind souls! what, weep you, when you but behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here! 
Ilere is himself — marred as you see, by traitors ! 

10. Good friends! sweet friends! let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 

They, that have done this deed, are honorable; 
What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not, 
That made them do it; they are wise, and honorable, 
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 

11. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; 

1 am no orator, as Brutus is ; 

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, 

That love my friend ; and that they know full well, 

That gave me public leave, to speak of hioL 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech. 

To stir men's blood — I only speak right on, 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know — 

Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouthy 

And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, 

And BrutuH Antony, tlicre were an Antony 

Would ruffle up your epirita, and put a ton;:uu 


In every wound of CaDsar, that should move 

Tlie stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. siiakspeari 



I WAS not born 
A shepherd's son to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant men amid the lowly vales ; 
Instead of rinj];ing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights! — I am of princely race; 
And if my father would have heard my suit, 
I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now 
I should have seen how lances meet and swords 
Do the field's work. Moslem !— on the hills. 
Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dressed the vines. 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home, 
Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword, 
Tizuna, cleared its way through turban ed hosts. 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moors — I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him mrs. demand 


If they but speak the truth of her. 
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honor. 
The proudest of them shall well hear of it 
Time hath not so dried this blood of mine, 
Nor age so eat up my invention. 
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means. 
Nor my bad life 'reft me so much of friends 
But they shall find awaked, in such a kind. 
Both strength of limb and policy of mind, 
Ability in means, and choice of friends. 
To quit me of them thoroughly. 

3. — laila's anger at thalaba's suspicions. 

Begone then, insolent! 
Why dost thou stand and gaze upon me thus? 
Aye ! watch the features well that threaten thee 


AVith fraud and danger! In the vrilderness 

They shall avenge me — in the hour of want 

Rise on thy view, and make thee feel 

How innocent I am: 

And this rememhered cowardice and insult 

^Vith a more painful shame will burn thy check 

Than now heats mine with anger. souxnir 


1. To be or not to be— that is the question! 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
Or to tnke arms against a sea of troubles. 
And, by opposing, end them — To die — to sleep — 
No more ! — and, by a sleep, to say we end 

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. 

2. To die — to sleep — 

To sleep? — perchance to dream — aye, there's the rub! 

For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come. 

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause I There 's the respect, 

That makes calamity of so long life: 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes — 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin? 

3. Who would fardels bear, 

To groan and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death — 

That undiscovered country, from whose bourne 

No traveler returns — puzzles the will. 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 

Than fly to others that ve know not of I 

4. Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all : 
And thus, the native hue of resolution 

Kinn. ^^r. 


X8 sicklied )'er with the pale cast of thoufjht ; 

And enterprises of great pith and moment, 

With this regard, their currents turn awry, 

And lose the name of action. SHAKdrEARi. 


} Stav, jailer, stay, and hear my woe 1 

She is not mad that kneels to thee ; 
For what I 'm now, too well I know, 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I '11 rave no more in proud despair ; 

My language shall be mild, though sad: 
But yet I firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad, I am not mad. 

2, My tyrant husband forged the tale 

Which chains roe in this dismal cell; 
My fate unknown my friends bewail — 

Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell : 
Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer ; 

Ilis heart at once 't will grieve and glad 
To know, though kept a captive here, 

I am not mad, I am not mad. 

3. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; 

He quits the grate; I knelt in vain; 
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — 

'T is gone ! and all is gloom again. 
Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light 1 — 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Yet here I 'm chained, this freezing night, 

Although not mad ; no, no, not mad. 

4 'T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; 

What ! I — the child of rank and wealth- 
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, 

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? 
Ah I while I dwell on blessings fled. 

Which never more my heart must glad. 
How aches my heart, how burns my head. 

But 't is not mad ; no, 't is not mad. 


5 Hast thou, my child, forgot, ero this, 

A mother's face, a mother's tongue? 
She '11 ne'er forget your parting kiss, 

Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; 
Nor how witli her you sued to stny; 

Nor how that suit your sire forbade; 
Nor how — I '11 drive such thoughts away ; 

They '11 make me mad, they '11 make me mad. 

6. II is rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone I 
None ever bore a lovelier child : 

And art thou now forever gone? 
And must I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I will be free! unbar the door! 

I am not mad ; I am not mad. 

7. Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries* 

Ilij chain some furious madman breaks : 
He comes — I see his glaring eyes ; 

Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. 
Help! help! — he's gone I — oh I fearful woe, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see' 
My brain, my brain — I know, I know, 

I am not mad, but soon shall be. 

8. Yes, soon; for, lo you! — while I speak- 

Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare! 
He sees n>f ; now, with dreadful shriek, 

He whiil- a serpent high in air. 
Horror! — the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; 
Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; I feel the truth ; 

y,.nr tn^i- ;o ,ione — I'm mad! I'm mad! 



1. My bravo associates, partners of my toil, my feelings, 
and my fame! Can Holla's words add vigor to the virtuous 
energies which inspire your hearts? No; you have judged 
as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these 
bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has 


compared, as mine has, the motives, which, in a war like this, 
can animate their minds and ours. 

2. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for 
plunder, and extended rule ; we, for our country, our altars, 
and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they 
fear, and obey a power which they hate; we serve a mon- 
■rch whom we love, a God, whom we adore. Whene'er 
they move in anger, desolation marks their progress ! 
Whene'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their 

3. They boast they come but to improve our state, en- 
large our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error! 
Yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who 
are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. 
They offer us their protection. Yes, such protection as 
vultures give to lambs — covering and devouring them. 

4. They call on us to barter allof good, we have inher- 
ited and proved, for the desperate chance of something 
better, which they promise. Be our plain answer this: 
The throne we honor is the people's choice; the laws we 
reverence are our brave fathers' legacy; the faith we follow 
teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and 
die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders 
this, and tell them too, we seek no change; and, least of all. 
such change as they would bring us. knowles. 


1. Oh, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven! 
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't — 
A brother's murder. — Pray, alas ! I can not. 
Though inclination be as sharp as 't will ; 
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, 
And like a man to double business bound, 
I stand and pause where I shall first begin, 
And both neglect What if this curs-ed hand 
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, 
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens 
To wash it white as snow? 


2. Whereto serves mercy, 
But to confront the visage of offense? 
And what's in prayer but this twofold force, 
To be forestalled ere we come to fall, 
Or pardoned being down? then I'll look up. 
My fault is past. But oh, what form of prayer 
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! 
That can not be, since I am still possest 
Of those effects for which I did the murder. 
My crown, my own ambition, and my queen. 

3 May one be pardoned, and retain the offense? 
In the corrupted currents of this world. 
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice; 
And oft 't is seen, the wicked prize itself 
Buys out the law ; but 't is not so above ; 
There is no shuffling, there the action lies 
In its true nature, and we ourselves compelled 
E'en to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 
To give in evidence. 

4. What then? what rests? 
Try what repentance can. What can it not? 
Yet what can it when one can not repent? 
wretched state 1 bosom, black as death I 
limed soul, that struggling to be free. 
Art more engaged 1 help, angels, make essay 1 
Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel 
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! 
All may be well. sdakspxabb 

1. — MALICE. 

now like a fawning publican ho looks I 

I hate him, for ho is a Christian, 

But more, for that, in low simplicity. 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 

The rates of usance, hero with us in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 

Iff hfitos our sacred nation, and he rails — 


Even there "where merchants most do congregate- 
On my bargains, and my well-won thrift ; 
Which he calls interest Cursed be my tribe, 
If I forgive him. shaksfeari 


I AM giddy: expectation whirls mo round. 

The imaginary relish is so sweet 

That it enchants my sense : what will it be. 

When that the watery palate tastes indeed 

Love's thrice reputed nectar? Death, I fear me; 

Swooning destruction ; or some joy too fine, 

Too subtle potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness, 

For the capacity of my rudar powers ; 

I fear it much ; and I do fear, besides, 

That I shall lose distinction in my joys ; 

As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps 

The enemy flying. 

My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse ; 

And all my powers do their bestowing lose, 

Like vassalage at unawares encountering 

The eye of majesty. sqakspeari 

3. — PASSION. 

Passion, when deep, is still — the glaring eye. 
That reads its enemy with glance of fire ; 
The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness ; 
The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide 
The keen fixed orbs that burn and flash below ; 
The hand firm clenched and quivering, and the foot 
Planted in attitude to spring and dart 
Its vengeance, are the language it employs. 
While passions glow, the heart, like heated steel, 
Takes each impression, and is worked at pleasure 


No change, no pause, no hope! yet I endure! 
I ask the earth, have not the mountains felt? 
I ask yon heaven, the all-beliolding sun. 
Has it not seen? The sea, in storm or calm. 
Heaven's ever changing shadow, spread below,— 
Have \\s deaf waves not heard my agony? 


Ah mel alas, pain, pain ever, forever I 
The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears 
Of thoir moon-freezing crystals: the bright chains 
Eiit with their burning cold into my bones: 
Heaven's wing-ed hound, polluting from thy lips, 
His beak in poison not his own, tears up 
My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by, 
The ghastly people of the realm of dream, 
Mocking me: and the earthquake's fiends are charged 
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds, 
When the rocks split and close again behind: 
While from their loud abysses howling throng 
The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail. 



1. Time was. when much he loved me; 
When we walked out, at close of day, t' inhale 
The breeze. Ah, well do I remember, 
IIow, then, with careful hand, he drew my mantle 
Round me, fearful lest the evening dews 

Should mar my fragile health. Yes, then his eye 
Looked kindly on me when my heart was sad. 
IIow. tenderly he wiped my tears away. 
While from his lips the words of gentle soothing 
In softest accents fell 1 

2. How blest my evenings too, when wintcry blast? 
Were howling round our peaceful dwelling! 

Oh, it was sweet, the daily task performed, 
By the sweet hearth and cheerful fire, to sit 
With him I loved; to view with glistening eye, 
And all a parent's fondness, the budding graces 
Of our little ones. 

3. Then ye had a father, 

My lovely babes, my more than helpless orphans. 
Your mother more than widowed grief has known : 
Yes, sharper pangs than those who mourn the dead, 
Seized on my breaking heart, when first I knew 
My lover, husband— oh, my earthly all — 
Was dead to virtue; when I saw the man 


My soul too fondly loved, transformed to brute. 
Oh, it was then I tasted gall and wormwood I 

4. Then the world looked dreary; fearful clouds 
Quick gathered round me; dark forebodings came. 
The grave, before, was terror; now it smiled: 

I longed to lay me down in peaceful rest, 

There to forget my sorrows. But I lived, 

And, oh, my God ! what years of woe have followed 

I feel my heart is broken. lie who vowed 

To cherish me — before God's altar vowed— 

Has done the deed. And shall I then upbraid him— 

The husband of my youthful days — the man 

To whom I gave my virgin heart away? 

Patient I'll bear it all 

5. Peace, peace, my heart! 

'Tis almost o'er. A few more stormy blasts. 
And then this shattered, broken frame will fall, 
And sweetly slumber where 
The wicked cease from troubling, 
And the weary are at rest 


1. Conscript Fathers, 

I do not rise to waste the night in words ; 
Let that' plebeian talk; 'tis not my trade; 
But here I stand for right — let him show proofs — 
For Roman right ; though none, it seems, dare stand 
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there I 
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves! 
His charge is false ; — I dare him to his proofs. 
You have my answer. Let my actions speak! 

2. But this I will avow, that I have scorned, 
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong ! 
-Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword, 
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back, 
"Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts 
The gates of honor on me — turning out 

The Roman from his birthright; and, for what? 
To fling your offices to every slave! 
Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb, 
Arul. having wound their loathsome track to the top. 


Of this huge, moldering monument of Rome, 
Hang hissing at the nobler man below! 
Come, consecrated Lictors, from your thrones ; 
Fling down your scepters ; take the rod and axe, 
And make the murder as you make the law! 

3. Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set fire« 
From daily contact with the things I loathe? 

"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this? 
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head? 

4. Banished! I thank you for't. It breaks my chain! 
I held some slack allegiance till this hour; 

But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords! 

I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 

Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up. 

To leave you in your lazy dignities. 

But hero I stand and scoff you ! here, I fling 

Hatred and full defiance in your face! 

Your Consul 's merciful — for this all thanks: 

He dares not i" uch a hair of Catiline ! 

5. "Traitor!" I go; but I return. This— trial? 
Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs 

To stir a fever in the blood of age. 

Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. 

This day's the birth of sorrow! This hour's- work 

Will breed proscriptions! Look to your hearths, my lords I 

For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods. 

Shapes hot from Tartarus I — all shames and crimes I 

Wan treachery, with his thirsty daggei 'Irawn; 

Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup; 

Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, 

Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 

Till anarchy comes down on you like night, 

And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave! 

6. I go ; but not to leap the gulf alone. 

I go; l)ut, when I come, 't will be the burst 

Of ocean in the earthquake — rolling back 

In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well! 

You build my funeral-pile ; but your best blood 

Shall quench its flame 1 Back, slaves ! I will return I 


KiDD.— 27 



1. V/uEREFoRE rcjoice, that Caesar comes in triumph T 
What conquest brings he home? 

What tributaries follow him to Rome, 

To irrace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels? 

i'ou blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless thinjrsi 

2. you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome I 
Knew ye not Pompey? Many a time and oft 
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements. 
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops. 
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 
The live-long day, with patient expectation, 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; 
And when you saw his chariot but appear, 
Ilave you not made a universal shout, 
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks 
To hear the replication of your sounds, 
Made in her concave shores? 

3. An<l do you now put on your best attire? 
And do you now cull out a holiday? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way. 

That comes in triumph over Porapey's blood? 

Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 

That needs must ligh^ on this ingratitude ! shakspeaRS. 


1. So, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty uj »rkler8— 
Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afrail. 

No keen-eyed agent of the government 

Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth, 

To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance, 

For the state's needs. Ila, ha! my shining p^-ts. 

My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets! 

Too well I loved you to do that — and so 

I pleaded poverty, and none could prove 

My story was not true. 

2. Ha! could they see 

These bags of ducats, and than prAciouJs pil« 


or iugots, and those bars of solid gold, 

Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort 

Ib it to see my moneys in a heap 

All safely lodged under my very roof! 

Here's a fat bag — let me untie the mouth of it. 

What elocjucnce! what beauty! what expression! 

Could Cicero so plead? could Helen look 

One half so charming? 

3 Ah! what sound was that? — 
The trap-door fallen? and the spring-lock caught T — 
Well, have I not the key ? — Of course I have ! 
'Tis in this pocket— No. In this?— Xo. Then 
I left it at the bottom of the ladder — 
Ila! 't is not there. Where then? — Ah! mercy, lleaven^ 
'Tia in the lock outside ! 

4. What's to be done? 

Ilelp, help ! Will no one hear ? ! would that I 

Il^d not discharged old Simon ! — but he begged 

Each week for wages — would not give mo credit. 

I'll try my strength upon the door — Despair ! 

I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks 

As force it open. Am I here a prisoner, 

And no one in the house? no one at hand, 

Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries? 

Am I entombed alive ? — Horrible fate ! 

I sink — I faint beneath the bare conception ! 

5. Darkness? Where am I? — I remember now — 
This is a bag of ducats — 'tis no dream — 

No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I 

Immured with my dear gold — my candle out — 

All gloom — all silence — all despair! What, ho! 

Friends! — friends? — I have no friends. What right have i 

To use the name? These money-bags have been 

The only friends I 'vo cared for — and for these 

I 'to toiled, and pinched, and screwed, shutting my hemit 

To charity, humanity and love! 

6. Detested traitors! since I gave you all — 
'A.y, gave my very soul — can ye do naught 
For me in this extremity? — Ho! without there! 
A thousand ducata for a loaf of bread 1 

Ten thousand ducn' '' - -t doss of water I 


A pile of ingots for a helping hand 1— 

Was that a laugh?— Ay, 'twas a fiend that laughed 

To see a miser in the grip of death 1 

7. Offended heaven! have mercy 1 — I will give 
In alms all this vile rubbish, aid me thou 

In this most di-eadful strait I I '11 build a church — 

A hospital I — Vain ! vain ! Too late, too late ! 

Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him I 

Heaven will not hear! — Why should it? What have I 

Done to enlist heaven's favor — to help on 

Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes ?--> 

Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the sooner 

For any work or any prayer of mine. 

8. But must I die here — in my own trap caught? 
Die — die? — and then! 0! mercy! Grant me time — 
Thou who canst save — grant mo a little time, 

And I'll redeem the past — undo the evil 

Tliat I have done — make thousands happy with 

This hoarded treaf.ure — do thy will on earth 

As it is done in heaven — grant me but time!- 

Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks ! All's lost ! 



1. Romans, countrymen, and lovers — hear me for my 
cause ; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for 
my honor : snd have respect to my honor, that you may 
believe. Censure me in your wisdom; and awake your 
senses, that you may the better judge. If there is any in 
this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that 
Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If, then, that 
friend demand why Brutus rose against Cffisar, this is my 
answer : Not that I loved Caesar less, but thai I loved Rome 

2. Had you rather Cnesar were living, and die all slaves, 
than that Cffisar were dead, to live all freemen? As Caesar 
loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at 
it; as he was valiant, I honor him : but, as he was ambitious, 
I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, 
honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. 


3. Who is here so base, that he would be a bondman? 
If any, speak ; for him 1 have offended. Who is here so 
rude, that he would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for 
him I have offended. Who is here so vile, that he will not 
love his country? If any, speak; for him T have offended. 
I pause for a reply 

4. None I Then none have I offended. I have done no 
more to Cajsar, than you shall do to Brutus. The ques- 
tion of his death is enrolled in the capitol ; his glory not 
extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor his offenses en- 
forced, for which he suffered death. 

5. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, 
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the bene- 
fit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth ; as which of 
you shall not? — With this, I depart — and, as I slew my best 
lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for my- 
self, when it shall please my country to need my death, 



1. O'er a low couch the setting sun 

Had thrown its latest ray, 
Where, in his strong agony, 

A dying warrior lay— 
The stern old Baron Rudiger, 

Whose frame had ne'er been bent 
By wa.sting pain, till time and toil 

Its iron strength had spent 

2. '* They come around mo hero, and say 

My days of life are o'er — 
That I shall mount my noble steed 

And lead my band no more ; 
They come, and to my beard they dare 

To tell me now, that I, 
Their own liege lord and master bom — 

That I— ha! ha I— must diel 

8. " And what is death ? I 'vo dared him ofi 
Before the Paynira's spear — 
Think ye he 's entered at my gate, 
Has come to seek me here? 


I *ve met him, faced him, scorned him, 
When the fif^ht was raging hot — 

I '11 try his might — I '11 brave his power- 
Defy, and fear him not I 

4. "Hoi souni the tocsin from the tower — 

And fire the culverin ! — 
Bid each retainer arm with speod — 

Call every vassal in! 
Up with my banner on the wall! 

The banquet board prepare ! — 
Throw wide the portal of my hall, 

And bring my armor there 1" 

5. A hundred hands were busy then ; 

The banquet forth was spread, 
And rang the heavy oaken floor 

With many a martial tread ; 
While from the rich, dark tracery. 

Along the vaulted wall. 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear. 

O'er the proud old Gothic halL 

6. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 

The mailed retainers poured 
On through the portal's frowning arch, 

And thronged around the board; 
While at its head, within his dark, 

Carved oaken chair of state, 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 

With girded falchion, sate. 

7. " Fill every beaker up, my men I 

Pour forth the cheering wine I 
There 's life and strength in every dro^^— 

Thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true? 

Mine eyes are waxing dim — 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones. 

Each gi^blet to the brim ! 

8 "Ye 're there, but yet I sec you not I 
Draw forth each trusty sword — 
And let me hear your faithful steel . 
Chish once around my board! 


I hear it faintly — louder yet! 

What clogs my heavy breath? 
Up, all ! — and shout for Rudiger, 

'Defiance unto death!' " 

9. Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, 

And rose a deafening cry, 
That made the torches flare around. 

And shook the flags on high: 
" IIo ! cravens ! do ye fear him J 

Slaves I traitors ! have ye flown ? 
Hoi cowards, have ye left me 

To meet him here alone? 

10. " But I defy him ! — let him come !" 

Down rang the massy cup. 
While from its sheath the ready blade 

Came flashing half-way up ; 
And with the black and heavy plumes 

Scarce trembling on his head. 
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, 

Old Rudiger sat — dead! a. a. greenk. 

CL.— bw.^w wc iiii-: GREEKS. 

1 Again to the battle, Achaians I 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; 
Oui land — the first garden of Liberty's tree — 
It Kas been, and shall yet be, the land of the free, 

For the cross of our faith is replanted, 

The pale dying crescent is daunted. 
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet* s slaves 
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graven. 

Their spirits are hovering o'er us. 

And the sword shall to glory restore as. 

2. Ah ! vrhat though no succor advances, 
•^ Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 
Are stretched in our aid? — Be the combat our own I 
\nd we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; 
F(ir we've sworn by our country's assaulters, 

virgins they 've dragged from our alta«^ 


By oar massacred patriots, oar children in chains. 
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
That, living, we will be victorious. 
Or that, dying, oar deaths shall be glorious. 

3. A breath of submission we breathe not: 

The sword that we 've drawn we will sheathe not ; 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid. 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 

Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us; 

But they shall not to slavery doom us: 
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves — 
But we 've smote them already with fire on the waves, 

And new triumphs on land are before us — 

To the charge! — heaven's banner is o'er us. 

4. This day shall ye blush for its story? 
Or brighten your lives with its glory ? — 

Our women — 0, say, shall they shriek in despair, 

Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? 

Accursed may his memory blacken. 

If a coward there be that would slacken 
Till we 've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth 
Being sprung from, and named for, the god-like of earth. 

Strike home 1 and the world shall revere us 

As heroes descended from heroes. 

5. Old Greece lightens up with emotion! 
Her inlands, her isles of the i>cean, 

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring. 
And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring. 
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness. 
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness ; 
While our maidens shall dance with their white waving arme^ 
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms — 
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens ! 



I. Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves I 
Will ye give it up to slaves? 
Will ye look for greener graves? 
Hope ye mercy still? 


What's the mercy despota feel? 
Hear it — in that battle peal 1 
Read it — on yon bristling steel 1 
Ask it — ^ye who will. 

2. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
Will yo to your homes retire? 
Look behind you ! they 're afire I 

And before you, see 
Who have done it! From. the vale 
On they cornel and will ye quail? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome bel 

3. In the God of battles trust I 
Die we may — and die we must: 
But, 0! where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well. 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell? pikrpont. 


1. Oh, with what pride I used 

To walk these hills, and look up to my God, 

And bless him that the land was free. 'T was free — 

From end to end, from cliff to hike 't was free I 

Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks. 

And plow our valleys, without asking leave I 

Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow 

In yery presence of the regal sun ! 

2. IIow happy was it then ! I loved 
Its very storms. Yes, I have sat 

In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake. 
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge 
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed 
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled 
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head. 
And think I had no master save his own 1 

Z. On yonder jutting cliff— o'ertaken there 
By the mountain blast, I 've laid me flat along. 


And while gust followed gust more furiously. 

As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, 

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms 

Are summer-flaws to those of mine, and just 

Have wished me there — the thought that mine was free 

lias cheeked that wish, and I have raised my head, 

Ami cried in thraldom to that furious wind, 

Blow on' — this is the land of liberty! knowlgs 


1. Scots, who have with Wallace bled, 
Scots, whom Bruce has often led, 
"Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to glorious victory ! 

2. Now *s the day, and now 's the hour — 
See the front of battle lower — 

See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward, chains and slavery! 

3. Who would be a traitor knave? 
Who would fill a coward's grave? 
Who so base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn, and flee ! 

i. Who for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword would strongly draw? 
Freeman stand! — or freeman faM 
Caledonia, on with me ! 

3. By oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chains, 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall — they shall be free I 

6. Lay the proud usurpers lowl 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty 's in every blow ! 

Forward ! let us do or die I burne 


1. Is THIS a aagger which I see before me, 
The handln toward my hand? Come, let me plutch tbee 

DRAMATlr 323 

I have thee not; and yet I see thee still.' 

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 

To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but 

A dagger of the mind? a false creation 

Proceeding from the heat-opprossed brain? 

I see thee yet, in form as palpable 

As this which now I draw. 

2. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; 
And such an instrument I was to use. 

Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still ; 
And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 
Which was not so before. There 's no such thing I — 
It is the bloody business, which informs 
Thus to mine eyes. 

3. Now o'er the one-half world, 

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 

The curtained sleep: now witchcraft celebrates 

Pale Hecate's offerings ; and withered Murder, 

— Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, 

Whose howl 's his watch — thus with his stealthy pace, 

Toward his design moves like a ghost. 

4. Thou sure and firm-set earth. 

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 

The very stones prate of my whereabout; 

And take the present horror from the time. 

Which now suits with it While I threat, he lives- 

I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 

Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 

That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. snAKsrE.\i«. 


1. Ye call mo chief; and ye do well to call him chief who 
f'*r twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape 
of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, 
tnd who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among 
you who can say, that ever, in public fight or private brawl, 
my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand ^orth, and 


Bay it. If there be three in all your company dare face m« 
on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not 
always thus — a hired butcher, a savaL^e chief of still more 
savage men ! 

2. My ancestors came from old t^parta, and settled among 
the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Cyrasella. Mj 
early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported ; and 
when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the dhade, and 
played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son 
of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks 
to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. 

3. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were 
all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my 
grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon, and Lcuctra; 
and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a 
defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole array. I did 
not then know what war was ; but ray cheeks burned, I knew 
not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, 
until my mother, parting the hair from off" my forehead, 
kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and 
think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That 
very night, the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the 
breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the 
war-horse ; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the 
blazing rafters of our dwelling ! 

4. To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I 
broke his helmet-clasps, behold ! he was my friend. He 
knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died — the same sweet 
smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adven- 
turous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff" to pluck the first 
ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph ! I 
told the pretor that the dead man had been ray friend, 
generous and brave ; and I begged that I might bear away 
the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its 
ashes. Ay I upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the 
arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled 
maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, 
and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, 
forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest {iladiat^ir turn pale and trcm- 


blc at sight of that piece of bleeding clay ! And the pretor 
drew back as I were pollution, and sternly said — " Let the 
carrion rot ; there are no noble men but llomans !" And 
BO, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. 

5. 0, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to 
me. Ay 1 thou hast given, to that poor, gentle, timid shep- 
berd-ltid who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, 
cuscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive 
the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, 
and warm it in the marrow of his foe : — to gaze into the 
glaring eye-balls of the* tierce Numidian lion, even as a 
boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, 
until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its 
deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! 

6. Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The 
strength of brass is in your toughened sinews ; but to-mor- 
row some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his 
curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, 
and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark ! hear ye yan 
lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted 
flesh ; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours — 
and a dainty meal for him ye will be ! 

7. If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, wait- 
ing for the butcher's knife! If ye are men, — follow me! 
Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there 
do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopylae ! la 
Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins 
that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound be- 
neath his master's lash? O, comrades! warriors! Thracians 
— if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves ! If we must 
slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, 
let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in nobloi 
hoDorable battle! k. kellogq. 


1. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatni^sl 
Thin iH the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
Th« t^mder leaves of hope, to-morrow blot»um8. 


And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost — a killing frost ; 
And when he thinks, good easy man I full surely 
His greatness is a ripening — nips the root. 
And then he falls, as I do. 

2. I have ventured. 

Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, 

These many summers in a sea of glory, 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 

At length broke under me, and now has left me. 

Weary and old with service, to the mercy 

Of a rude stream that must forever hide me. 

3. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye I 
I feel my heart new opened; oh! how wretched 

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! 

There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 

That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin, 

More pangs and fears than wars or women have; 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. snAKs\^ii 


1. "Say, Doctor, may I not have rum, 
To quench this burning thirst within? 
Here on this cursed bed I lie, 

And can not get one drop of gin. 
I ask not health, nor even life — 
Life 1 what a curse it 's been to me ! 
I'd rather sink in deepest hell, 
Than drink again its misery. 

2. "But, Doctor, may I not have rum? 
One drop alone is all I crave: 

Grant this small boon — I ask no more- 
Then I '11 defy — ^yes, e'en the grave ; 
Then, without fear, I '11 fold my arms. 
And bid the monster strike his dart. 
To haste me from this world of woe, 
And claim his own — this ruined heart 

3. " A thousand curses on his head 
Who gave me first the poisoned bowl, 


Who taught me first this bano to drink — 
Drink — death and ruin to my soul. 
My soul ! oh cruel, horrid thought 1 
Full well I know thy certain fate ; 
With what instinctive horror shrinks 
The spirit from that awful state! 

4. " Lost— lost— I know forever lost I 
To me no ray of hope can come : 

My ftite is scaled ; my doom is 

But give mo rum ; I will have rum. 
But, Doctor, do n't you see him there ? 
In that dark corner low ho sits ; 
See ! how he sports his fiery tongue, 
And at me burning brimstone spits ! 

5. " Say, do n't you see this demon fierce! 
Does no one hear? will no one come? 

Oh save mo— save me — I will give — 
But rum ! I must have — will have rum ! 
Ah I now he's gone ; once more I 'm free : 
He — the boasting knave and liar — 
lie said that he would take me oflf 
Down to But there I my bed's on fire I 

6. "Fire! water! help! come, haste — I 'I lie: 
Come, take me from this burning bed: 

The smoke — I 'm choking — can not cry; 

There now — it 's catching at my head ! 

But see ! again that demon's come ; 

Look ! there he peeps through yonder crack , 

Mark how his burning eyeballs llsish ! 

llow fierce he grins ! what brought him back ? 

7. There stands his burning coach of fire; 
lie smiles and beckons me to come — 
What are those words he 's written there? 

• In hell, we never want for rum !' " 
One loud, one piercing shriek was heard i 
One yell rang out upon the air; 
One sound, and one alone, came forth — 
The victim's cry of wild despair. 

8. "Why longer wait? I 'm ripe for hell; 
A spirit 's sent to bear me down : 


There, in the regions of the lost, 

1 sure will wear a fiery crown. 

Damned, I know, without a hope! — 

One moment more, and then I *11 come! — 

And there I '11 quench my awful thirst 

With boiling, burning, fiery ruml ALijaox. 


1. Father of earth and heavenl I call thy name! 

Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll ; 
My eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame ; 

Father! sustain un untried soldier's soul 

Or life, or death, whatever bo the goal 
That crowns or closes round the struggling hour, 

Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole 
One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower 
On my young fame ! — hear 1 God of eternal power ! 

2. Now for the fight ! Now for the cannon-peal ! 

Forward — through blood, and toil, and cloud, and fire, 
Glorious the shout, the shock, the clash of steel. 

The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire! 

They shake ! like broken waves their squares retire ! 
On then, hussars ! Now give them rein and heel ; 

Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire: 
Earth cries for blood ! — in thunder on them wheel ! 
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal ! 



AocKS of my country ! let the cloud your crested bights array. 
And rise yo, like a fortress proud, above the surge and spray I 
My spirit greets you as ye stand, breasting the billow's foam: 
O ! thus forever guard the land, the sacred land of home I 

I have left rich blue skies behind, lighting up classic shrines, 
And music in the southern wind, and sunshine on the vines. 
The breathings of the myrtle-flowers have floated o'er my way; 
The pilgrim's voice, tit vesper-hours, hath soothed me with it? 


3. The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, the purple heavens of 

Yes, all are glorious — yet n^n'm I bless thee, Land of Home! 
For thine the sabbath peace, my land ! and thine the guarded 

hearth ; 
And thine the dead, the noble band, that make 'he holy earth. 

I Their voices meet me in thy breeze, their steps are on thy 

plains ; 
Their names by old majestic trees are whispered round thy 

Their blood hath mingled with the tide of thine exulting sea; 
! be it still a joy, a pride, to live and die for thee ! 



1. Tnus, thus, my friends! Hist as our breaking hearts 
Permitted utterance, we have told our story: 

And now, to say one word of the imposture — 
The mask necessity has made me wear. 
When the ferocious malice of your king- 
King! do I call him? — when the monster, Tarquin. 
Slew, as most of you may well remember, 
My father, Marcus, and my elder brother. 
Envying at once their virtues and their wealth, 
How could I hope a shelter from his power. 
But in the false face I have worn so long? 

2. Would you know why I summoned you together? 
Ask ye what brings me here ? Behold this dagger, 
Clotted with gore ! Behold that frozen corse ! 

See where the lost Lucrctia sleeps in death ! 
She was the mark and model of the time, 
The mold in which eajh female face was formed, 
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue ! 

3. The worthiest of the worthy ! not the nympb 
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, 

And whispered in his ear her strains divine. 
Can I conceive beyond her! — the young choir 
Of vestal virgins bent to hor ! — Such a mind. 
Might have abashed the boldest libertine, 
And turned desire to reverential love 
And holi**«f t 


4. Oh my countrymen 1 

You all can witness when that she went forth 

It was a holiday in Rome: old age 

Forgot its crutch ; labor its task ! all ran ; 

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried 

"There, there ^s Lucretial" — Now look ye where she lies 

That beauteous flower, that innocent swoet rose, 

Tom up by ruthless violence— gone I gone I 

5. Say — would you seek instructions I would you seek 
What ye should do? — Ask ye yon conscious walls 
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the crime 
Committed there, and they will cry. Revenge I— 

Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple 
With human blood, and it will cry. Revenge! 
Go to the tomb where lie his murdered wife. 
And the poor queen who loved him as her son, 
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge! 
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heaven,— 
The gods themselves — will justify the cry. 
And swell the general sound — Revenge ! Revenge ! 



1. Of comfort no man speak: 

Let 's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; 
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. 
Let 's choose executors and talk of wills : 
And yet not so — for what can we bequeath. 
Save our depos-od bodies to the ground? 
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbrooke^s, 
And nothing can we call our own, but death. 
And that small model of our barren earth. 
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 

2. For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground. 
And tell sad stories of the death of kings — 

How some have been deposed, some slain in war; 
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; 
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed; 


All murdered — for within the hollow crown, 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king, 
Keeps death his court, and there the antic sits, 
ScoflBng bis state, and grinning at his pomp ; 
Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
To monarchize, be feared and killed with looks ; 
Infusing him with self and vain conceit — 
As if this flesh which walls about our life, 
Were brass impregnable: and humored thus. 
Comes at the last and with a little pin 
Bores through his castle wall, and— farewell, king! 


1. WflAT cutting bliist ! and he can scarcely crawl ; 
He freezes as he moves — he dies ! if he should fall ; 
Witli cruel fierceness drives this icy sleet, 

And must a Christian perish in the street, 

In sight of Christians?— There ! at last he lies- 

Nor unsupported can he ever rise: 

He can not live. — In pity do behold 

The man affrighted, weeping, trembling, cold: 

Oh 1 how those flakes of snow their entrance win 

Through the poor rags, and keep the frost within; 

His very heart seems frozen as he goes, 

Leading that starved companion of his woes: 

He tried to pray— his lips, I saw them move, 

And he so turned his piteous looks above ; 

But the fierce wind the willing heart opposed. 

And, ere ho spoke, the lips in misery closed : 

Poor suffering object ! yes, for ease you prayed, 

And God will hear — Ho only, I 'm afraid. 

2. When reached his home to what a cheerless fir« 
And chilling bed will those cold limbs retire? 

Yet ragged, wretched as it is, that bed 

Takes half the space of his contracted shed ; 

I saw the thorns beside the narrow grate, 

With straw collected in a putrid state: 

There will he, kneeling, strive the fire to raise. 

And that will warm him rather than the blaze; 

The sullen, smoky blaze, that can not last 

One moment after his attempt is past: 

And I so warmly and so purely laid, 

To sink to rest— indco<l. I un afraid. crabby 



liuLNAR*!— if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offered rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating; shine ; 

Jf all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem I 

It had not now redeemed a single hour; 

But that I know him fettered, in my power; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill. bvron 

4. --KKVKN(;i;. 

Must I despise thee too, as well as hate thee? 

Complain of grief! — Complain thou art a man. 

Priam from fortune's lofty summit fell. 

Great Alexander 'mid his conquests mourned, 

Heroes and demigods have known their sorrows, 

Caesars have wept — and I have had my blow ! 

But 't is revenged ; and now, my work is done ! 

Yet, ere I fall, be it one part of vengeance 

To make even thee confess that I am just. 

Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain. 

Whose native country thou hast laid in blood, 

Whose sacred person — oh ! — thou hast profaned, 

Whose reign extinguished ! What was left to me. 

So highly born ? — No kingdom, but revenge ! 

No treasure, but thy tortures, and thy groans! 

If cold white mortals censure this great deed, 

Warn them, they judge not of superior beings. 

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun. 

With whom revenge is virtue! y<^eino 


1. Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors*. 
My very noble, and approved good masters: 
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
It is most true ; true, I have married her : 
The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent; no more. 


2. Rude am I in speech, 

And little blessed with the set phrase of peace : 
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 
Their dearest action in the tented field ; 
And little of this great world can I speak, 
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle; 
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause. 
In speaking of myself 

3. Yet, by your patience, 

I will, a round, unvarnished tale deliver. 

Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 

What conjuration, and what mighty magic — 

For such proceedings I am charged withal — 

I won his daughter with 

4. Her father loved me; otc invited me; 
Still questioned me the story of my life, 

From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes, 

That I had past 

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days. 

To the very moment, that he bade me tell it 

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances ; 

Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 

Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach ; 

Of being taken by the insolent foe. 

And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, 

And with it all my travel's liistory. 

5. All these to hear. 

Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 
But still the house aflfairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear. 
Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing. 
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart. 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate ; 
Whereof by parcels, she had something heard, 
Hut not distinctly. 

6. I did consent ; 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 
When I did speak of some distressful struka, 


That by my youth suffered. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs. 

She swore in faith, 'i was strange, 't was passing strange ; 

'T was pitiful ; 't was wondrous pitiful ; 

She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished 

That heaven had made her such a man. 

7. She thanked me, 
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
And that would woo he?. On this hint I spake ; 
She loved me for the dangers I had passed ; 
And I loved her, that she did pity them. 
Tliis is the only witchcraft which I 've used. 



1. Mt liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
But I remember, when the fight was done. 
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil. 
Breathless, and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed. 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reaped 
Showed like stubble-land at harvest home. 

2. lie was perfumed like a milliner ; 
And, twixt his finger and his thumb, he held 
A pouncet-box, which, ever and anon, 

lie gave his nose. And still he smiled, and talked. 

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 

To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse 

Betwixt the wiw"d and his nobility. 

3. With many holiday and lady terms, 

He questioned me ; among the rest, demanded 

My prisoners, in her majesty's behalf; 

I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galled 

To be so pestered with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief and my impatience. 

Answered negligently — I know not what — 

He should, or should not ; for he made me mad, 

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet. 


And talk so liko a waiting gentlewuman, 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds — heaven save the mark-- 

And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth, 

Was spermaceti — for an inward bruise: 

4. And that it was great pity — so it was — 
That villainous saltpeter should be digged 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
WL*vh many a good, tall fellow had destroyed 
So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns. 
Ho would himself have been a soldier. 

5. This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
I answered indirectly, as I said ; 

And I beseech you, let not his report 
Come current, for an accusation, 
Betwixt my love, and your high majesty. 



1. Dark is the night 1 how dark — no light — no firel 
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire ! 
Shivering she watches by the cradle side. 

For him who pledged her love — last year a bride 1 

2. "Uarkl 'tis his footstep! No — 'tis past: 'tis gone: 
Tick ! — Tick I — How wearily the time crawls on ! 
Why snould he leave me thus ? He once was kind 1 
And I believed 'twould last — how mad 1— how blind! 

3. " Rest thee, my babe 1 — rest on ! — 'tis hunger's cry I 
Sleep ! — for there is no food ! the fount is dry ! 
Famine and cold their wearying work have done, 

My heart must break ! — and thou !" The clock strikes one 

4 '• Hush ! 'tis the dice-box ! Yes, he's there, he's there, 
For this! for this he leaves me to despair! 

Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what? 
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot! 

5 " Yet I'll not curse him ! No ! 'tis all in vain ! 
'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again ! 
And I could starve and bless hira, but for yoa, 

My rhiM!-his rhild !-— O fiend!" The clock strikes two 


•'. • ll.ukl how the sign-boar. ! The Ma '.•y\ 

M ' 1 ! A dirge swells llnough the cloudy sky! 

II knock! he comes! — he comes once more! 
"lis hui e flaps 1 Thy hope is o'er. 

7. "Can he dcHcrt mo thus? He knows I stiy 
Ni<rht nft^r night in loneliness to pray 

' n — and yet he sees no tear ! 
•an not be. lie ^v^ll be here, 

"^ ' more ol 

III -ii It col ' ,lii)j;! But we will not part 
Ilu-l.:uHi : ' , :— It i? not ho! 

Oh God: Miy child!" T oe. 

I. Til M-! the gliinmeriit^ gpark hath fled 

Th-- • ., bored with the doad! 

On the cold i 

The child lic.s 

The gambler came at ! - 

Dead silence reiened aromui — in»' cih-k -i:; k luur! 


CLXW <'A--!rS A'..\[VST a^SAR. 

1. Hon": is the subject of my story, 
I can not tell what you, and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 

In awe of such a thing as myself. 
I ^ Caesar; so were you; 

Wc ..-..>- V. .:. .o : — : well; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well a?^ he. 

2. For, once upon a raw and gusty day. 
The troubled Tiber, chafing with its shores, 
Caesar says to me — " Barest thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me, into this angry flood. 

And swim to yonder point?" — Upon the word, 

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 

And bade him follow; so, indeed he did. 

The torrent roared, and we did buJSet it; 

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside. 

And steniiuing it, with hearts of. controversy. 


But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
Caesar cried — " Help mo, Cassius, or I sink." 

3. I, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber 

Did I the tired Caesar; and this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A. wretched creature, and must bend his body, 

If Caesar carelessly but nod to him. 

4. He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
And when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake ; 

His coward lips did from their color fly ; 

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 

Did lose its luster ; I did hear him groan. 

Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

"Alas!" it cried — "Give me some drink, Titinius." 

5. Ye gods I it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 

Like a Colossus, and we, petty men, 

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about. 

To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 

6. Men, at some time, are masters of their fates: 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. 

But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus and Caesar! What should be in that Caesar? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours? 
Write them together : yours is as fair a name ; 
Sound them : it doth become the mouth as well ; 
Weigh them : *it is as heavy : conjure with 'em : 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 

7. Now, in the name of all the gods at onc«, 
Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed, 

That ho hath grown so great? Age, thou art ashamed; 
Rome, thou host lost the breed of noble bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was fammi with more tlian with one .nan ? 
KiDD.— 29 


When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 

That her wide walls encompassed but one man? 

Oh I you, and 1 have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked 

The infernal devil, to keep his state in Home, 

As easily as a king. shakspkasi 


1. I COME not here to talk. You know too well 
The story of our thralldom. "We are slaves I 
The bright sun rises to his course and lights 

A race of slaves! lie sets, and his last beams 
Fall on a slave ; not such as swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led 
To crimson glory and undying fame : 
But base, ignoble slaves ; slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords, 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages ; 
Strong in some hundred spearm"" • ""V' -'••it 
In that strange spell — a name. 

2. Each hour, dark fraud, 

Or open rapine, or protected murder. 

Cry out against them. But this very day 

An honest man, my neighbor — there he stands — 

Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore 

The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, 

lie tossed not high his ready cap in air. 

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, 

At sight of that great ruffian ! Be we men, 

And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not 

The stain away in blood? Such shames are compar.n; 

I have known deeper vrrongs ; I, that speak to ye 

I had a brother once — a gracious boy. 

Full of gentleness, of calmest hope. 

Of sweet and quiet joy: there was the look 

Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 

To the beloved disciple. 

3. How I loved 

•\&t gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 
..»rother at once, and son ! He left my side, 


A summer bloom on his fair cheek, a smile 
Parting liis innocent lips. In one short hour, 
That pretty, harmless boy was slain I I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! rouse, ye shxvesl 
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, 
Dishonored ; and if ye dare call for justice. 
Be answered by the lash! 

4. Yet this is Rome, 
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne 
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans 1 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman, 
Was greater than a king ! and once again— 
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus! once, again, I swear. 
The eternal city shall be free. miss mitford 


I In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay ; 

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; 
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away. 
And yisions of happiness danced X)'er his mind. 

2. He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers. 

And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
While memory stood sidewise, half-covered with flowers. 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

3. Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide. 

And bade the young dreamer in ccstacy rise — 

Now far, far behind l>im the green waters glide. 

And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

4 The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, 

And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall 
All trembling >vith transport, he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

5. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight, 

His check ib impearlcd witli a mother's warm *car. 


And the lips of the lx)y in a love-kiss unite 

With tlie lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 

6 The heart of the slee|Kir beats high in his breast, 

Joy quickens his pulse — all his hardships seeiji o'er, 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest- 
"Oh God thou hast blest me — I ask for no more." 

7 Ah! whnt is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? 

Ah! wiiat \A that sound which now larums his ear? 
'T is the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky ! 
'T is the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! 

S. lie springs from his hammock— he flies to the deck;' 
Amazement confronts him with images dire — 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck — 
The masts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire ! 

U. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell — 
In vain the lost wreteh calls on Mercy to save; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave 1 

10. Oh! sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight I 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss — 
Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, 
Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? 

11. Oh! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; 
Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, 
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

12. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee. 

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge : 
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be. 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge. 

13 On beds of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid. 
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 
And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

14. Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll — 
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye — • 
Oh ! sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul, dimonu. 



i. Once more unto tho breach, dear Inends, once more; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
In peace there 's nothing so becomes a man 
Aa modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger ; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disguise fair nature with liard-favorcd rage; 
Then lend tho eye a terrible aspect; 
Let it pry through the portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it, 
As fearfully as doth a gall-ed rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

2. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide. 
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 

To his full hight. Now on, you noblest English, 

Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof; 

Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 

Ilave in these parts from morn till even fought, 

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument : 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to warl 

3. And you, good yeomen. 

Whose limbs arc made in England, show us here 

Tne mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not . 

For there is none of you so mean and base 

That hath not noble luster in your eye ; 

I see you stand like grayhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon tho start: the game 's a-foot; 

Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 

Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St George I 



\ All the world 's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players: 
They have their exits and their entrances. 


And one man in his tiiae plays many parts, 
II in acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arras. 
Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school And then, the lover, 
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, 
Full of strange oaths, and .bearded like a pard. 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel. 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mmitli. 

2. And then, the ji.. i.v^c, 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances: 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifls 
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
Ilis youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly Toice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange, eventful history. 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, siuis every thing. 



I. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay. 
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus, 
The vultures at his vitals, and the links 
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; 
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim. 
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild 
Forth with his reaching fancy, and with form 
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye 
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip, 
Were like the winged god's breathing from hi^ flight. 


2 • l>ring me the captive now! 

My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift; 

And I could paint the bow 
Tpon the bended heavens; around me play 
Colors of such divinity to-day. 

3 " Ua ! bind him on his back 1 

Look I as Prometheus in my picture herel 
Quick! or he faints! stand with the cordial near I 

Now, bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh I 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! 

4. •' So I let him writhe ! IIow long 

Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now I 
What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 

Ila! gray-haired, and so strong! 
IIow fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! 

5 " • Pity * thee ? So I do ; 

I pity the dumb victim at the altar; 

But does the robed priest for his pity falter? 

I 'd rack thee, though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine ; 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine? 

G. Ahl there 's a deathless name I 

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. 
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and bum ; 

And though its crown of flame 
Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me ; 
By all the fiery st nluck it on me! 

7 " Ay, though it bid me rifle 

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst ; 
Though every life-strung nerve bo maddened firtt; 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child. 
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild . 

6. "All I I wo'ild do it all, 

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot; 
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot 
Oh heavenH! but I appall 


Your heart, old man 1 forgive — ha I on your lives 
Let him not faint 1 rack him till he revives I 

9. " Vain— vain — ^give o'er. His eye 

Glazes apace. He doea not feel you now. 
Stand back I I Ml paint the death dew on his brow 1 

Gods! if he do not die 
But for one moment — one — till I eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips I 

10 •• Shivering ! Hark 1 he mutters 

Brokenly now ; that was a diflBcult breath ; 
Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh, D»»:\th ? 

Look ! how his temple flutters ! 
Is his heart still? Aha! lid up his head ! 
He shudders — ^gasps — Jove help him— so, he 's dead 1" 

11. How like a mountain devil in the heart 
Rules this unreined ambition ! Let it once 
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow 
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought 
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 
Left in the desert for the spirit's lip. 
We look upon our splendor, and forget 
The thirst of which we perish ! willis. 


I. Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee; 
The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free ! 
I 've mailed it with the thunder when the tempest muttered 

low ; 
And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its blow 
I 've scared you in the city ; I 've scalped you on the plain ; 
Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rainl 
I scorn your proffered treaty; the pale-face I defy; 
Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood" my battlr- 


S. Some strike for hope of booty ; some to defend their all :— 
I battle for the jr y I have to see the white man falL 


1 love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan, 

And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of hLs «;r":in. 

Ye 'to trailed mo through the forest; ye 've tracked me o'er 

the stream ; 
And struggling through the everglade your bristling bayoneta 

But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and his spoar ; 
The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you — '* O ui 

not here V 

Think ye to find my homestead?— I gave it to the fire. 
My tawny household do ye seek? — I am a childless sire. 
But, should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have, and 

I live on hate — 't is all my bread ; yet light is not my food. 
I loathe you with my bosom! I scorn you with mine eye I 
And I '11 taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you till I 

I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your slave ; 
But I 'II swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath the 

wave! a. w. fatten. 


1. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

" This is my own, my native land I" 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned. 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
For him no minstrel-raptures swell. 

2. High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown ; 

And, doubly dying, shall, go down 

To the vile dust from which he sprung, 

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

3 Caledonia! stem and wild. 
Meet nurse for a poetic chil^, 


Liind of brown heath and ehaggy wood, 

Land of the mountain and the flood, 

Land of my eircs; what mortal hand 

Can e'er untie the filial band, 

That knits me to thv rugged strand? 8C0TT. 


1. man! while in thy early v»nra 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious nours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

2. Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched pair I 

Show man was made to mourn. 

3. A few seem favorites of fate. 

In pleasures lap caressed ; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise ti'uly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land 

Are wretched and forlorn; 
Through weary life this lesson leara 

That man was made to mourn. 

4 Many and sharp the nameless ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn. 

onAMATIC. KTC. 347 

Man's inhumanity to man 
Makes countless thousands mourn. 

6. See yonder poor, o'er-laborcd wight, 

So abject, mean ."vod vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

6. death I the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid by thee to rest! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn I burns. 


1 DO mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all suspicion heard. 
tJome in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 
Thou need'st not answer, thy confession speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks! 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware; 
'T is not his life alone may claim such care; 
Another word — and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no— 
I then had mourned thee with a lover's woe — 
Now 't is thy lord that warns, deceitful thing! 
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 
Id words alone I am not wont to chnfe: 
Look to thyself, nor deem thy falsehood safe! by run 

3. — HOPE» . 

It shall be my delight to tend his eyes, 
And view him sitting in the house, ennobled 
With all those high exploits by him achieved, 
And on his shoulders waving down those loclu 


That, of a nation armed, the strength contained; 

And, I persuade me, God hath not permitted 

His strength again to grow up with his hair, 

Garrisoned round about him like a camp 

Of faithful soldiery, were not his purpose 

To use him farther yet in some great service; 

Not to sit idle with so great a gift 

Useless, and thence ridiculous about him ; 

And, since his strength with eye-sight was not lost, 

God will restore him eye-sight to his strength. 

4. FEAR. 

On, agony of fear I 

Would that he yet might livel even now I heard 

The legate's followers whisper, as they passed. 

They had a warrant for his instant death, 

All was prepared by unforbidden means. 

Which we must pay so dearly, having done. 

Even now they search the tower, and find the body. 

Now they suspect the truth ; now they consult 

Before they come to tax us with the fact; 

0, horrible 1 't is all discovered! shellet 


But love, first learned in a lady's eyes. 

Lives not alone immured in the brain ; 

But with the motion of all elements. 

Courses as swift as thought in every power; 

And gives to every power a double power. 

Above their functions and their offices. 

It adds a precious seeing to the eye ; 

A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind; 

A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound. 

When the suspicious head of theft is stopped ; 

Love's feeling is more soft, and sensible, 

Than arc the tender horns of cockled snails; 

Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste: 

For valor, is not lovp a Hercules, 

Still climbing trees in the Ilesperides? 

Subtle as sphinx, as sweet and musical 

As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair ; 

And, when love speaks, the voice of all the gods, 

Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 


Never durst poet touch a pen to write, 

Until iiis ink were tempered with love's sighs ; 

0, then his lines would ravish savage ears, 

And plant in tyrants mild humility. sdakspeare. 


1 But see — he starts — what heard he then ? 
That dreadful shout ! — across the glen 
From the land-side it comes, and loud 
Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd 
Of fearful things, that haunt that dell, 
Its Ghouls and Dives and shapes of hell, 
Had all in one dread howl broke out, 
So loud, so terrible that shout! 
"They come — the Moslems come!" he cries, 
His proud soul mounting to his eyes — 
*' Now spirits of the brave, who roam 
Enfranchised through yon starry dome, 
Rejoice — for souls of kindred fire 
Are on the wing to join your choir!" 

2. lie said — and, light as bridegrooms bound 

To their young loves, reclimbed the steep 
And gained the shrine — his chiefs stood round— 

Their swords, as with instinctive leap, 
Together, at that cry accurst. 
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. 
And hark! — again — again it rings; 
Near and more near its echoings 
Peal through the chasms — Oh ! who that then 
Had seen those listening warrior-men. 
With their swords grasped, their eyes of flame 
Turned on their chief — could doubt the shame, 
The indignant shame with which they thrill 
To hear those shouts and yet stand still? 

3. Ilo read their thoughts — they were his own — 

•What! while our arms can wield these blades, 
Shall wo die tamely? die alone? 

Without one victim to our shades. 
One Moelom heart, where, buried deep, 
The saber from its toil may sleep ? 
No — God of Iran's burning skies I 


Thou scorn'st the inglorious sncritice. 
N<) — though of all earth's hope bereft, 
Life, swonls, and vengeance still are left: 
We 'W make yon valley's reeking caves 

Live in the awestruck minds of men. 
Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves 

Tell of the Gueber's bloody glen 1 
Follow, brave hearts I— this pile remains 
Our refuge still from life and chains; 
But his the best, the holiest bed. 
Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead !" mooiib. 



1. One there was whose loud defying tongue 
Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 
Of overboiling malice. Utterance long 

His passion mocked and long he strove to tell 
His laboring ire; still syllable none fell 
From his pale quivering lip, but died away 
For very fury ; from each hollow cell 
Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray. 

2. ** This comes," at length burst from the furious chief, 
" This comes of dastard counsels ! Here behold 

The fruits of wily cunning ! the relief 

Which coward policy would fain unfold 

To soothe the powers that warred with heaven of old- 

wise I potent ! sagacious snare ! 

And lo I our prince — the mighty and th^ bold. 

There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air 

While heaven subverts his reign and plants her standard there." 

3. Here as recovered, Satan fixed his eye 
Full on the speaker — dark as it was stern — 
lie wrapped his black vest round him gloomily 

And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern. 

Him Moloch marked and strove again to turn 

Ilis soul to rage. " Behold, behold," he cried, 

" The lord of hell, who bade these legions spurn 

Almighty rule — behold he lays aside 

The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied." 


4. Thus ended Moloch, and his burnin<; tongue 
Ilung quivering as if mad to quench its heat 
In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, 
/The famished tiger pants, when near his seat, 
Pressed on the sands, he marks the traveler's feet 
Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 
Ilad from its scabbard sprung ; but toward the seat 
Of the arch-fiend, all turned with one accffrd. 
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde: 

5. "Ye powers of hell, I am no coward. I proved this 
of old. Who led your forces against the armies of Jeho- 
vah ? Who coped with Ithuriel, and the thunders of the 
Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on 
the burning lake, who first awoke and collected your scat- 
tered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathom- 
able aljyss to this delightful world, and established that 
reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, 
dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's 
bravery? He, who preys only on the defenseless — who 
sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of igno- 
ble cruelty and unequal contention ! Away with the boaster 
who never joins in action ; but, like a cormorant, hovers 
over the field, to feed upon the wounded and overwhelm 
the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as 
from hesitation. Let us counsel coolly, but let us execute 
our counseled purposes determinedly. In power, we have 
learned by that experiment which lost us heaven, that we are 
inferior to the thunder-bearer: in subtlety — in subtletv 
aloDC, wo are his equals." white. 


1. Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sung 
To the departed day, 
Upon whose bi«r 
The velvet pall of midnight nuU oeen flunj^ 

And nature mourned through one wide hemispber* 
Silence and darkness held their cheerless sway. 

Save in the htiunta of riotous e.xcess, 
And half the world in dreamy slumbers lay — 


Lost in the maze of sweet forgetfulness, 
When lol upon the startled ear, 
Tl^re broke a sound so dread and drear— 
A^, like a sudden peal of thunder, 
Burst the bands of sleep asunder, 
AhJ filled a thousand throbbing hearts with fear. 

2. Harld the faithful watchman^s cry 
Speaks a conflagration nigh! — 
Seel yon glare upon the sky, 

Confirms the fearful bile. 
The deep-mouthed bells, with rapid tone. 
Combine to make the tidings known; 
Affrighted silence now has flown, 
And sounds of terror freight the chiUy galet 

f At the first note of this discordant din. 

The gallant fireman from his slumber st res* 
Reckless of toil and danger, if he win 
The tributary meed of grateful hearts. 
From pavement rough, or frozen ground, 
His engine's rattling wheels resound, 

And soon before his eyes 
The lurid flames, with horrid glare. 
Mingled with murky vapors rise. 
In wreathy folds upon the air. 
And vail the frowning skies! 

4. Sudden a shriek assails his heart — 

A female shriek, so piercing wild. 
As makes his very life-blood start — 

" My child ! Almighty God, my child I" 
He hears. 
And 'gainst the tottering wall, 

The ponderous ladder rears ; 
While blazing fragments round him fall, 

And crackling sounds assail his ears. 

5. Ilis sinewy arm, with one rude crash, 
llurls to the earth the opposing sash ; 

And heedless of the startling din — 
Though smoky volumes round him roU, 
The mother's shriek has pierced his soul. 

Sec ! see ! he plunges in ! 
The admiring crowd, with hopes and feara, 


In breathless expectation stands, 
When lol the daring youth appears, 
Hailed by a burst of warm, ecstatic cheers. 

Bearing the child triumphant in his hands I 


1 Shk stood before the dying man, 

And her eye grew wildly bright — 
" Ye will not pause for a woman's ban. 

Nor shrink from a woman's might ; 
And his glance is dim that made you fly, 

As ye before have fled: 
Look dastards ! — how the brave can die — 

Beware ! — he is not dead 1 

*L By his blood you have tracked him to his lairl- 

Would you bid the spirit part? — 
lie that durst harm one single hair 

Must reach it through my heart. 
I can not weep, fo^ my brain is dry — 

Nor plead, for I know not how ; 
But my aim is sure, and the shaft may fly, — 

And the bubbling life-blood flow! 

3. Yet leave me, while dim life remains, 

To list his parting sigh ; 
To kiss away those gory stains, 

To close his beamless eye! 
Ye will not! no — he triumphs still, 

Whose foes his death-pangs dread — 
His was the power — yours but tho will : 

Back — back— he is not dead! 

4 His was the power that held in thrall, 

Through many a glorious year, 
Priests, burghers, nobles, princes, all 

Slaves worship, hate, or fear. 
Wrongs, insults, injuries thrust him forth 

A bandit chief to dwell ; 
How he avenged his slighted worth. 

Ye, cravens, best may tell I 

5. His spirit lives in the mountain breath, 
It flows in the mountain wave ; 
KiDD.— 30 


Rock — stream— hath done the work of death 
Yon deep ravine— the j];rave ! — 

That which hath been again may be!— 
Ah 1 by yon fleeting sun, 

Who stirs, no morning ray shall see — 
Uis sand of life has run 1" 

6. Defiance shone in her flashing eye, 

But her heart beat wild with fear — 
She starts — the bandit's last faint sigh 

Breathes on her sharpened ear — 
She gazes on each stiffening limb, 

And the death-damp chills her brow; — 
** For him I lived — I die with him ! 

Slaves, do your oflfice now I" 


1. The spirits I have raised abandon me— 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I recked of tortured me ; 

I lean no more on superhuman aid, 

It hath no power upon the past, and for 

The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness, 

It is not of my search. My mother earth 1 

And thou, fresh breaking day ; and you, ye mountains, 

Why are ye beautiful ? I can not love ye. 

2. And thou, the bright eye of the universe. 
That openest over all, and unto all 

Art a delight — thou shinest not on my heart: 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindle as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest forever — wherefore do I pause? 

3. I feel the impulse — ^yet I do not plunge; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede; 

And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a power upon me which withholds 


And makes it my fatality to live: 

If it bo life to wear within myself 

This barrenness of spirit, and to be 

My own soul's sepulcher, for I have ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself — 

The last infirmity of evil. 

4. Ay, thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle pcutea. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well mayest thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye can not follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward or above 
With a pervading vision. 

5. Beautiful! 

How beautiful is all this visible world ! 

Uow glorious in its action and itself I 

But wc, who name ourselves its sovereigns, wo, 

Ilalf-dust, half-deity, alike unfit 

To sink or soar, with our mi.xed essence make 

A conflict of its elements, and breathe 

The breath of degradation and of pride, 

Contending with low wants and lofty will 

Till our mortality predominates. 

And men are — what they name not to themselves, 

And trust not to each other. 

6. Hark ! the note, 

[ The shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed— 
For hero the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air. 
Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 
My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment— born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me I btkok 


I. Shi was an only child, her name Qinevn^ 
The jr"^ M.n vvrwi.* ,.r o.. indulgent father; 


And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 

Marrying an only eon, Francisco Doria, 

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love- 

2. She was all gentleness, all gayety, 

Her pranks the ftiTorite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, tlie day, the hour, 
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time. 
The nurse, the ancient lady, preached decorum; 
And in the luster of her youth she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francisco. 

3. Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, 
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting. 
Nor was she to be found I Her father cried, 

*"T is but to make a trial of our love I" 

And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. 

And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 

4. 'T was but that instant she had left Francisco^ 
Laughing, and looking back, and flying still, 

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger ; 
But, now, alas she was not to be found; 
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, 
But that she was not! 

5. Weary of his life, 

Francisco flew to Venice, and embarking. 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
The father lived, and long might you have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something ; 
Something he could not find, he knew not what 
When he was gone the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 

6. Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 
When on an idle day, a day of search, 

'Mid the old lumber in the gallery. 
That moldering chest was noticed, and 't'was said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra ; 
" Why not remove it from its lurking place ?" 

7. 'T was done as soon as said, but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and lo I a skeleton, 

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 


All else had perished — save a wedding-ring 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy, » 

Engraven with a name, the name of both, * Ginevra '* 

8. There, then she had found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy. 
When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down forever! Rogers 


1. TflK shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
" Excelsior I" 

2. His brow was sad ; his eye, beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath: 
And like a silver clarion rung 

The accents of that unknown tongue, 
*' Excelsior !" 

3. In happy homes he saw the light 

Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
" Excelsior 1" 

4. "Try not the pass!" the old man said, 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent 's deep and wide 1" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 

" Excelsior I" 

5. "Oh! stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!" — 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
" Excelsior I" 

6. " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch 1 


This was the peauant's last good-night ; — 
A voice replied, far up the hight, 

7. At break of day, as heavenward * 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the ofl-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
•• Excelsior 1" 

8. A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
Ilalf-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 

" Excelsior !" 

9. There, in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 

And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star— 

" Excelsior 1" lonofellow. 


1. Give me another horse — bind up my wounds — 
Have mercy, Jesu — soft : I did but dream ! 

0, coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! 

The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. 

What do I fear? Myself? There 's none else by. 

Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. 

Is there a murderer here ? No : yes ; I am. 

Then fly. What! From myself? Great reason, why? 

Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself? 

I love myself? Wherefore? For any good 

That I myself have done unto myself? 

0, no ; alas ! I rather hate myself, 

For hateful deeds committed by myself. 

2. I am a villain: yet I lie; I am not 

Fool, of thyself speak well — fool, do not flatter— 
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues ; 
And every tongue brings in a several tale ; 
And every tale condemns me for a villain. 
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree, 


MurJor, Btern murder, in the direst degree, 
Tlirong to the bar, crying all, Guilty 1 guilty I 
1 shall despair. There is no creature loves me. 
And, if I die, no soul will pity me ; 
Nay ; wherefore should they ; since that I myself 
Find in myself no pity to myself? — 
Methought the souls of all that I had murdered 
Came to my tent, and every one did threat 
To-morrow *8 vengeance on the head of Richard. 



1. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bankl 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 

Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 

Become the touches of sweet harmony. 

Sit, Jessica: Look, how the floor of heaven 

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 

There 's not the smallest orb, which thou beholdest. 

But in his motion like an angel sings. 

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim : 

But, while this muddy vesture of decay 

Doth grossly close it in, we can not hear it. — 

Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn ; 

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, 

And draw her home with music. 

2. Do thou but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 

Or any air of music touch their ears, 

You sliall perceive them make a mutual stand, 

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, • 

By the sweet power of music. Therefore, the poet 

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; 

Since nought so stockish hard, and full of rage. 

But musio for the time doth change his nature. 

The man that hath no music in himself. 

Nor is not mov"' »r"»> .>«>.« '».»r«l of sweet soandfl. 

560 ELOCUTIOlf. 

Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spells; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night. 

And his affections durk as Erebus: 

I<et no such i ' .mstod. sdakspeark 

CLXXxiii.— THE I'"'' '^-r '^"KKn:. 

1. The isles of rirecce! mi- 

\\'lieic 1 w.ning Sapph' 
Where grew the arts of war and ;."jaee, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung 1 
Eternal summer gilds them yet; 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

2. The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour ahme, 

I dreamed that r.reece might still be free 
F"" "^•"'■ling on the Persian's grave, 
1 t deem myself a slave. 

3. 'Tis something;, in tlie Jeartli of fame, 

Though linked among a fettered race. 
To feel at least a patriot's shame,' 

Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
For what is left the poet here? 
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

4. Must we but weep o'er days more blessed T 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled — 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead I 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae. 

5. Wliat ! silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come, we come 1" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

6. In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine I 


Leave battles to the Turkish hordeo. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine I— . 
Hark 1 rising to the ignoble call, 
IIow answers each bold bacchanal I 

7. The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend: 
That tyrant was Miltiades I 

that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

8. Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who buys and sells. 
In native swords and native ranks 

The only hope of courage dwells ; 
But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

9. Place me on Sunium's marble steep. 

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
A land of slaves shall ne'er bo mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! btkoh 



What is 't to me, if all have stooped in turn 7 
Does fellowship in chains make bondage proud? 
Does the plague lose its venorn if it taint 
My brother with myself? Is 't victory. 
If I but find stretched by my bleeding side 
All who come with me in the golden morn. 
And shouted as my banner met the sun? 
I can not think on 't There 's no faith in earth I 
The very men with whom I walked through life. 
Nay, till within this hour, in all the bonds 
Of courtesy and high companionship, 
They all deserted me ; Metellus, Scipio, 
.^^milius, Catn. cvt^n my kinsman, Caesar. 
KlDD— 31 


AU the chief names and senators of Rome, 
This day, o^ >f the heavens had stamped me black, 
IVrned en their heel, just at the point of fate; 
Left me a mockery, in the rabble's midst. 
And followed their plebeian consul, Cicero I 
This waa the day to which I looked through life ; 
And it has failed me — vanished from my grasp, 
Like air. crolt 

2. — DESPAIR. 

I TILL you, hopeless grief is passionless ; 
That only men incredulous of despair. 
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air 
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access 
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness 
In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare 
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare 
Of the free chartered heavens. Be still I express 
• Grief for thy dead in silence like to death 1 
Most like a monumental statue sat 
In everlasting watch and moveless woe, 
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. 
Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet? 
If it could weep, it could arise and go I 

3. — LOVE. 

1. Strange! that one lightly-whispered ton« 

Is {iiT, far sweeter unto me, 
Than all the sounds tliat kiss the earth 

Or breathe along the sea ; 
But, lady, when thy voice I greet, 
Not heavenly music seems so sweet 

2. I look upon the fair, blue skies. 

And naught but empty air I see , 
But when I turn me to thine eyes, 

It seemeth unto me 
Ten thousand angels spread their wings 
Within those little azure rings. 

3. The lily hath the softest leaf 

That ever western breeze hath fanned, 
But thou shalt have the tender flower. 
Say I may take thy hand ; 


That little hand to me doth yield 
More joy than all the broidered field. 

4. 0, Indyl there be many things 

That seem right fair, below, above ; 
But sure not one among them all 

Is half so sweet as love ; 
Let us not pay our vows alone. 
But join two altars both in one. o. w. noLMKf 


Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : 
They rally ! — they bleed ! — for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'T is thine, Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep Albin! to death and captivity led! 
Oh, weep! but thy tears can not number the dead: 
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden 1 that recks with the blood of the brave. 

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling s-otr 
Or, if gory Culloden bo dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright 

Wizard. Ila ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn! 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be tsirn I 
•Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth. 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North/ 
L<) ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Coinpanionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
Hut down let him 8t<K)p from his havoc on high I 
Ah I home let him upeed — for the Bpoiler id nigh. 


Why flames the for Aumniit? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from tlie firmament cast ? 
'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiell the peerless in mig^it. 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' hight, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to bun>; 
Return to thy dwelling, all lonely !— return I 
Fjf the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt ; I have marshaled my clan ' 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock 1 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaidod and plumed in their tartan array — 

Wizard. Lochiell Lochiel! beware of the day! 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
But man can not cover what God would reveal: 
'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 
Lo ! anointed by heaven with vials of wrath, 
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: 
Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 
'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors ; 
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores: 
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? where? 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. 
Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn ? 
Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
The war-drum is muffled ; and black is the bier ; 
Ilis death-bell is tolling ; oh ! mercy, dispel 
Yon sight that it freezes ray spirit to tell ! 
Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 


Accursed bu the faggots that blazo at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat. 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter I I trust not tho tale, 
For never shall Albin a destiny meet. 
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field and his feet to the foe, 
And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



1, ly their ragged regimentals, 
Stood the old continentals, 

Yielding not. 
When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon shot; 
When tho files 
Of the isles 
From the smoky night encampment, 
Bore the banner of tho rampant 

And grummer, grummer, grummer. 
Rolled the roll of the drummer. 
Through the morn ! 

2 Then with eyes to the front all. 
And with guns horizontal. 

.Stood our sires; 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed tho fires ; 
As the roar 
On the shore 
Swept the strong battle breakers 
O'er the green-sodded acres 
Of the plain, 


And loudef, loader, louder. 
Cracked the blaok gunpowder. 
Cracked amain I 

3. Now like smiths at their forge* 
Worked the red St George's 

And the "villainous saltpeter" 
Rang a fierce discordant meter 

Round their ears: 
As the swift 
With hot sweeping; anger. 
Came the horseguards' clangor 

On our flanks ; 
Then higher, higher, higher. 
Burned the old-fashioned fire 

Through the ranks! 

4, ThtoU the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder cloud ; 
And his broad sword was swinging, 
» And his brazen throat was ringing. 

Trumpet loud : 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew. 
And the trooper jackets redden 
At the touch of the leaden 

Rifle ])reath, 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, 
Roared the iron six-pounder 
Hurling death I 


1. Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Charge I" was the captain's cry; 
Theirs not to reason why, 


Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs but to do or die. 
Into the valley of death, rode the six hundred 

2. Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the mouth of hell. 
Into the jaws of death, rode the; six hundred. 

3. Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
They that had struck so well 

Rode through the jaws of death 

Half a league back again, 
Up from the mouth of hell 
All that was left of them, left of six hundred. 

4. Honor the brave and bold ! 
Long shall the tale be told. 
Yes, when our babes are old — 

How they rode onward. TiNNrsoB 


1. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound. 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I '11 give thee a silver pound. 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

2 " Now, who be ye would cross Luch-Gvle, 
This dark and stormy water?' 
'•Oh I I 'm the chief of Ulva's isl , 
And this— Lord Ullin's daughter. 

3. "And fast before her father's men, 

Three days wo *ve fled together. 
For nhould ho find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

4. " His horsemen hard behind us ride: 

Should they our steps discover. 


Then who will cheer my lx)nny bride, 
When they have slain her lover?" 

5. Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 

" I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : 
It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady : 

6. "And, by my word! the bonny bird 

In danger, shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 
I 'U row you o'er the ferry." 

7. By this, the storm grew loud apace, 

The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

8. But still, as wilder grew the wind, 

And as the ni^ght grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men. 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

9. "0 haste thee, haste!" the lady criea, 

" Though tempests round us gather, 
I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

10. The boat has left the stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh I too strong for human hand. 
The tempest gathered o'er her. 

11. And while they rowed, amid the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing, 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 
Ilis wrath was changed to wailing. 

12. For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely arm she stretched for aid, 
And one was round her lover. 

13. " Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 

"Across this stormy water: 
And I '11 forgive your Highland chief: 
My daughter ! oh, my daughter !" 

14. 'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the shore. 

Return, or aid preventing: 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 
And he was left lamenting. campbill. 




1. Sence the first time I hecrd you preach, I 've had an 
ondiscribable desire to have some privit conversashun with 
you in regard to the state of my mind — your discourse 
was so wonderful sarchin, that I felt to mourn over my 
backslidden state of stewpidity, and my consarn increased 
every lime I 've sot under the droppins of your sanctuery. 
Last night, when I hcerd of your sickness I felt wonder- 
ful overcom ; onable to conseal my aggitation, I retired to 
my chamber, and bust into a flud of tears. I felt for you, 
elder Sniffles — I felt for you. I was wonderful exercised 
in view of your lone condition. 

2. O, it 's a terrible thing to be alone in the world! I 
know all about it by experience, for I 've been pardnerless 
for nigh twelve year; its a trying thing, but I thought 
't was better to be alone than to run enny resk — for yer 
know it 's runnin' a great resk to take a second companion, 
espeshelly if they aint decidedly pious — and them that 's 
tried to perswade me to change my condition, dident none 
of 'em give very satisfactory evidence of piety — 'taint for 
me to say how menny I 've refused on account of their 
want of religion. Accordin' to my notions, riches and 
grander aint to be compared to religion, no how you can fix 
it, and I always told 'em so. 

3. But I was tollin' how overcome I was when I heerd 
of your being attacked with influenzy. I felt as if I must 
go right over and take care of you. I wouldcnt desire no 
better intertainmcnt than to umss you up, and if 'twant for 
the speech of pecple, Ide fly to your relefe instanter; but 
I know 't would make talk, and so I 'm necessitated to stay 

4. But I felt 80 consarned about you that I could n't help 
writin' these few lines to you to let you know how anxious 
T be on your account, and to beg of you to take care of 


yourself. O elder, do be careful — the influenzy 's a danger- 
ous eppidemik, if you let it run on without attendin' to it 
in season — do be careful — consider what a terrible thing 
't would be for you to be took away in the height of yer 
yusefulnis; and 0, elder, no body wouldent feel yer loss 
with more intensitude than what I should, though mebby 
f hadent oughter say so. 

5. 0, elder Sniffles, I do feel as if I couldent part will 
you no bow. I 'm so interested in your preachin', and it '§ 
had such a wonderful attendancy to subdew my prcjudishes 
agin' your dcnominashun, and has sot me considerin' whether 
or no there aint good christuns in all denominashuns, 'cept, 
of course, the unevarsallers. 

6. O, reverend elder, I intreat you to take care of your 
preshus health. I send you herewith a paper of boneset, 
you must make some good stiff tea on *t and drink about a 
quart to-night afore you retire. Molasses or vinegar 's 
a good thing, too, for a cold or coff ; jest take about a pint 
of molasses and bile it down with a teacup of vinegar and 
a hunk of butter as big as a hen's egg, and stir in about 
a half a teacup full of peppersass, and eat it down hot jest 
afore bedtime — and take a strip of flannil, and rub some 
hog's lard on 't, though goose ile 's about as good, and pin 
it round yer throte rite off; and I send likewise a bag of 
hops — you must dip it in bilin' vinegar and lap it on yer 
chist when you go to bed, and keep a dippin' on 't as fast 
as it begins to git cool ; and jest afore you git into bed, 
soke yer feet in bilin' hot water with some red peppers in 
it ; now do n't forgit nothing 1 've proscribed. 

7. But I was a tellin' how exercised I was when I heerd 
of your sickness. I went immejitly to my chamber, and 
gin away to a voiellent flud of tears. I retired to my 
couche of repose, but my aggetashun prevented my sleepin'* 
I felt quite a call to express my feelins in poitry — I 'ja very 
apt to when ennything comes over me — so I riz and lited 
my candle, and composed these stanzys, which I hope wiU 
be aggreible to you. 

8. reverend sir, I do declare, 

It drives me a'most to frenzy, 


To think of you a lyin' there 
Down sick with influenzy. 

9 A body 'd a thought it was enough 
To mourn yer wife's departer, 
"Without such trouble as this 'ere 
To come a follerin' arter. 

10. But sickness and aiQiction are trials sent 

By the will of a wise creation, 
And always ought to be underwent 
With fortytude and resignashun. 

11. Then mourn not for your pardner's deth, 

But to submit endevver; 
For sposen she hadent a died so soon, 
She could n't a lived forever. 

\'2. 0, I could to your bedside fly, 
And wipe your wepin' eyes, 
And try my best to cure you up, 
If 't wouldent create surprize. 

;i world of trouble we tarry in — 
Dut elder do n't dispair; 
That you may soon be movin' agin, 
Is constantly my prayer. 

14. Both sick and well, you may depend 
Youle never be forgot. 
By your faithful and affectionate friend, 



1. Lords and Ladies of creation, to a metrical oration, — 
Funny epical narration, — your attention I implore ; 

Not a blood-and-thundor story, with a hero grim and gory, 
And a highfcrluten glory, heavy, dull, — in short, a bore ; 
But an "ower-true tale" of "hair breadth 'scapes," and danger* 
haply o'er : 

Past, I trust, for evermore. 

2. As I sat one morning lonely in my school-room, thinking only 
Of the mighty glorious oyster-soup, I 'd had the night before. 
Suddenly I heard a clatter, as of some one beating batter, 


And my thoughta began to scatter, as I r^artec for the door, 
As I hastened, half in anger, muttering, to my school-room door, 
Muttering this, and something more. 

3. *• That 'b some mother, now ; I wonder if she *s come t^ give 

me thunder, 
For the flogging that I gave her hopeful i ... :..„ ., .^. ..... ; 

If it is, I '11 speak her civil, though she rates me like the devil,- 
I 've endured as grand an evil, and, perchance, as great a bore," — 
In my days of pedagoguing I 've endured full many a bore. 
And expect to many more. 

4. As my bodings thus concentered, open flew the door, and 

A two-fisted Amazonian, in her soc^s some six feet four ; 
And the door-posts seemed to squeeze her, as vrith mien of king 

or kesar, 
Crossed my Rubicon this Caesar, and came striding up the floor. 
With her green eyes glaring at me as she strode the creaking 

floor: — 

Sight forgotten nevermore! 

5. At her gate my heart beat quicker, for I s^aw she was in 

By her wild gesticulations and tlie Billingsgate .-w: .-»i>re: 
Thought I, "vixen," — quite uncourtly — " though you are enormous 

If you do not very shortly take yourself from out the door, 
Take your fat and burly carcass past the threshold of yon door. 
You will rue it evermore." 

6. Then I told her in a flurry, she must be ofi" in a hurry, 
And I pointed, as I told her, to the open standing door ; 
Sternly then I frowned upon her, shook my fist like practiced 

When, upon my word of honor, down she sat upon the floor; 
»Vith her arms braced out beside her, sat she down upon the 

floor ! — 

Rose there then a wild uproar. 

7. Every pupil, in a titter, stretched his neck to see the critter. 
See a sight to them uncommon — woman sitting on the floor. 
Woman sitting still and swearing, while her eyes were wildly 



And in stentor U)no8 declaring, if I got her out of door, 
I should have to take her in my arms and lug her out of door; 
This she told rao evermore. 

8. First I hushed the wild confusion, caused by this unique in 
And a single word sufficing perfect quiet to restore ; 
For a moment I reflected: "She 's a woman, loved, respected. 
By some heart with her's connected, that may grieve in sorrow sore, 
For this lorn and fallen being, whom my vengeance hovers o'er ; 
Loved, though Allien, evermore. 

u 1 rudely treat a woman? It will be an act inhuman: 
Olio which I, through all the future, shall with deep remorse de 

plorc ; 
O'er the outrage will grow witty News Reporters of the city" — 
Here she swore again, and pity fled my heart, grown soft before: 
Mauger sex and gallant promptings, thought I, she shall out of 

And return thence nevermore. 

10. Then I thought, "My arch virago, with your craft, a la 

I will try a simple stratagem, I ne'er have tried before ; 
And if I 'm not mistaken, you will have your courage shaken, 
And will take away your bacon, from that place upon the floor ; 
From your comic situation, sprawling on my school-room floor. 
And you '11 sit there nevermore." 

11. There 's a maxim worth possession, and 't is this: a sound 

Is the better part of valor, when there 'a danger hovering o'er ; 
So I seized a pail of water, and resolved I 'd duck this daughter, 
And I did n't do nothing shorter, as she sat upon the floor ; 
For I dashed the liquid round her in a deluge on the floor, — 
And, my conscience, how she swore 1 

12. For a moment, gasping, choking, while the moisture in -wm 

Sat she still in wild amazement, fixed like statue to the floor : 
But right short her hesitation, for I smiled in exultation, 
When, loithouten explanation, broke she fur the open door; 

king once behind her, quickly bounced she out of door; 
And I saw her nevermore. 

u. J. uriLBUN. 



1. Fellow Citizens : — It is but natural for me to feci 
my own self importance, and self insufficiency on this 
momentous and direful occasion ; but as I seldom have 
rcxjourse to the high absurdity of apologizing, I shall con- 
tinue to proceed, notwithstanding I do not feel myself 
ibso itely tantamount to the task you have imposed upon 

2. We have met, fellow citizens, on this delightful and 
desecrated spot, for the sublime purpose of contaminating 
our nation's ever glorious anniversary. Fellow citizens! I 
feel my want of that hypercritical learning so necessary to 
the complete disembodiment of my exaggerated imagination. 

3. Let us now, with the deepest-toned energies of the 
heart, take a transient survey of the many contaminating 
causes which led to the masculine independence ; yea, a 
declaration that caused a diabolical amputation of one of 
the most transcendent members of the British Empire. 

4. Let us, then, in a prolixly brief way^ glance at, or 
rather anticipate, some of the ostensible causes which gave 
rise to that mighty and obstreperous revolution — a revolu- 
tion which raised up from the nethermost depths of con- 
temptibility the most dignified generals the world has ever 
saw — generals whose characters are particularly and unin- 
tentionally stamped upon the ever invulnerable lists of fame, 
where they must ever stand, highly ridiculous and vener- 
able, far above the reach of the the most copiou* mind that 
ever exaggerated in the ethereal blue. 


1. Once in the chase, this monarch drooping, 
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, 

Entered, through curiosity, a cot, 

Where an old crone was hanging on the pot: 
The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny. 
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, 

Had apple-dumplings ready for the pot; 


In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, 
When lol the monarch, in his usual way. 

Like lightning asked, "What's here? what's here? 
wliat? what? what? what?" 

2. Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
His eyes with admiration did expand — 

And ofl did majesty the dumpling grapple ; 
" 'Tis monstrous, monstrous, monstrous hard," he cried , 
*• What makes the thing so hard ?" The dame replied, 

Low courtesying, " Please your majesty, the apple/' 
" Very astonishing indeed I strange thing !" 
(Turning the dumpling round) rejoined the king, 
" 'Tis most extraordinary now, all this is — 
It beats the conjurer's capers all to pieces — 
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream — 
But Goody, tell me, where, where, where 's the seam ?" 
" Sire, there 's no seam," quoth she, "I ne?er knew 
That folks did apple-dumplings sew !" — 
" No !" cried the staring monarch with a grin, 
"Then, where, where, where pray, got the apple in?" 

W0I.C .. f 


1. In winter, once, an honest traveling wight 
Pursued his road to Derby, late at night ; 
'Twas very cold, the wind was bleak and high, 
And not a house nor living thing was nigh ; 

At length he came to where souie four roads met, 

(It rained too, and he was completely wet,) 

And being doubtful which way he should take 

lie drew up to the finger-post to make 

It out — and after much of poring, fumbling, 

Some angry oaths, and a great deal of grumbling, 

'Twas thus the words he traced — " To Derby — five," 

" A goodly distance yet, as I 'm alive !" 

2. But on he drove a weary length of way, 
And wished his journey he 'd delayed till day : 
lie wondered that no town appeared in view, 
(The wind blew stronger, it rained faster, too,) 
When to his great relief he met a man : 

"I say, good rr'""'i •— "^ ♦oH ..." ;r ,,>,, ,»,,., 


IIuu' far is 't hence to Derby?" "Derby, hey! 
Why zur, tliee be'est completely come astray ; 
Thi>* y'ant the road." "Why, zounds! the guide-post fthowcd 
■/, five* — and pointed down this road!" 
sir, that may be, for you maun know, 
The post it war blown down last night, and so 
Tliis mom I put it iii» aL'.iln. Lut \vli<"ther 
(As I can't put gr« 

The post is right, 1 Hi /.mu i c.iii ii^-i. /..i> — 
The town is just five miles the other way." 


of my childhood, 

>> Men loivi recoiKH'iion prescius uiem to view I 
The cheese-press, the goose-pond, the pigs in the wild-wood. 

And every old stump that my infancy knew. 
The big linkum-basswood, with wide-spreading - 

The horses that grazed where my grandmother fell; 
The sheep on the mountain, the calves in the meadow, 

And all the young kittens we drowned in the well — 
The meek little kittens, the milk-loving kittens. 
The poor little kittens, we drowned in the well. 

iiember with pleasure my grandfather's goggles, 

\V liich rode so majestic astraddle his nose ; 
And the harness, oft mended with tow-string and "toggles," 

That belonged to old Dolly, now free from her woes. 
And fresh in my heart is the long maple wood-pile, 

' worked with beetle and wedge, 
1^ _^ up enough to last for a good while, 

And grumbling because my old ax had no edge. 
And there was the kitchen, and p""^'^ '''it stood nigh it, 

Where we sucked up the drink a quill in the spout 

And the hooks where we hung up me pumpkin to dry it; 

And the old cider pitcher, *' no doing without ;" 
The brown-earthen pitcher, the nozzle-cracked pitcher, 
The pain-easing pitcher, '* no doing without." 

. And there was the school-hon-e. avray from each dwelling, 

Where school-ma'ams would govern with absolute sway ; 
Who taught me my "Arithmetic," reading, and spelling. 
And "whaled me like blazes" about every day! 


I remember the ladder that swung in the passage, 

Which led to the loft ia the peak of the house ; 
Where my grandmother hung up her " pumpkin and sausage," 

To keep them away from the rat and the mouse. 
But now, far removed from that nook of creation, 

Emotions of grief big as tea-kettles swell. 
When Fancy rides back to my old habitation. 

And thinks of the kittens we drowned in the well — 
The meek little kittens, the rnilk-loving kittens, 
The poor little kittens, we drowned in the well. 


1. Mr. President, — Happiness is like a crow perched 
upon the neighboring top of a far distant mountain, which 
some fisherman vainly strives, to no purpose, to ensnare. 
He looks at the crow, Mr. President, — and — Mr. President, 
the crow looks at him ; and, sir, they both look at each 
other. But the moment he attempts to reproach him, he 
banishes away like the schismatic taints of the rainbow, the 
cause of which, it was the astonishing and perspiring genius 
of a Newton, who first deplored and enveloped the cause 
of it. 

2. Can not the poor man, sir, precipitate into all the beau- 
ties of nature, from the loftiest mounting up to the most 
humblest valley, as well as the man prepossessed of indi- 
gence? Yes, sir; while trilling transports crown his view, 
and rosy hours allure his sanguinary youth, he can raise 
ais mind up to the laws of nature, incompressible as they 
are, while viewing the lawless storm that kindleth up the 
tremenjious roaring thunder, and fireth up the dark and 
•apid lightenings, and causeth it to fly through the inten- 
sity of space, that belches forth those awful and sublime 
meteors, and roll-abolly-aliascs, through the unfathomable 
legions of fiery hemispheres. 

3. Sometimes, sir, seated in some lovely retreat, beneath 
the shadowy shades of an umbrageous tree, at whose venal 
foot flows some limping stagi.ant stream, he gathers around 
him his wife and the rest of his orphan children. He there 
f..i ,.. .. retrospective view upon the diagrain of futurity, and 

i.D.— 32 


casts his eye like a flashing meteor forward into the past 
Seated in their midst, aggravated and exhaled by the dig- 
nity and independence coincident with honorable poverty, 
his countenance irrigated with an intense glow of self defi- 
ciency and excommunicated knowledge, he quietly turns to 
instruct his little assemblage. lie there endeavors to distill 
into their young youthful minds, useless lessons to guard 
Iheir juvenile youths against vice and immortality. 

4. There, on a clear sunny evening, when the silvery 
moon is shining forth in all her indulgence and ubiquity, 
he teaches the first sediments of gastronomy, by pointing 
out to them the bear, the lion, and many other fixed invis- 
ible consternations, which are continually involving upon 
their axletrccs, through the blue cerulean fundamus above. 
From this vast etherial he dives with them to the very bot- 
tom of the unfathomable oceans, bringing up from thence 
liquid treasures of earth and air. He then courses with 
them on the imaginable wing of fancy through the bound- 
less regions of unimaginable either, until, swelling into 
Impalpable immensity, he is forever lost in the infinite 
radiation of his own overwhelming genius. 


1. The kings who ruled mankind with haughty sway, 
The prouder pope, whom even kings obey — 
Love, at whose shrine both popes and monarchs fall, 
And e'en self-interest, that controls them all — 
Possess a petty power, when all combined. 
Compared with fashion's influence on mankind : 
For love itself will oft to fashion bow ; 
The following story will convince you how: 

2. A petit maitre wooed a fair, 

Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare ; 
But vainly had preferred his claim, 
The maiden owned no answering flame ; 
At length, by doubt and anguish torn, 
Suspense, too painful to be borne, 
Low at her feet he humbly kneeled, 
And thus his ardent flame revealed : 

A .M 1 > 1 .N i; 

3. ** Pity my grief, angelic fair, 
Behold my anguish and despair; 
For you, this heart must ever burn — 
bless me, with a kind return; 

My love, no language can express. 
Reward it then, with happiness ; 

4. Nothing on earth but you I prize, 
All else is trifling in my eyes ; 
And cheerfully would I resign 

The wealth of worlds, to call you mine 
But, if another gain your hand, 
Far distant from my native land, 
Far hence from you and hope I '11 fly, 
And in some foreign region die." 

5. The virgin heard, and thus replied : 
" If my consent to be your bride. 
Will make you happy, then be blest ; 
But grant me, first, one small request ; 
A sacrifice I must demand. 

And in return will give my hand." 

6. " A sacrifice I speak its name. 

For you I 'd forfeit wealth and fame ; 
Take my whole fortune — every cent — " 

7. "'T was something more than wealth I meant' 

8. " Must I the realms of Neptune trace ? 

speak the word— where 'er the place, 
For you, the idol of my soul, 

1 'd e'en explore the frozen pole ; 
Arabia's sandy deserts tread. 

Or trace the Tigris to its head." 

ft " no, dear sir, I do not ask, 
So long a voyage, so hard a task ; 
You must — but ah! the Luon I want, 
I have no hope that you will grant" 

10. "Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire 
To bo the world's imperial sire? 
Express the wish, and here I vow, 
To place a crown upon your brow." 


11. *' Sir, these are trifles"— she .•epliea— 
** But, if you wish mo for your bride, 
You must — but still I fear to speak — 
Tou '11 never grant the boon I seek." 

12. **0 say;" he criod — "dear angel say— 
What must I do, and I obey ; 

No longer rack me with suspense. 

Speak your comm".'"''' '^'^-i Kor.,1 ti-io Jw>rw'.> " 

\A. "Well, then, dear generous youini t^iio cnea, 
"If thus my heart you really prize, 
And wish to link your fate with mine. 
On one condition I am thine; 
'T will then become my pleasing duty. 
To contemplate a husband's beauty ; 
And, gazing on your manly face, 
His feelings and his wishes trace ; . 
To banish thence each mark of care. 
And light a smile of pleasure there. 
let me then, 't is all I ask, 
Commence at once the pleasing task ; 

let me, as becomes my place. 

Cut those huge whiskers from your face." 

14 She said — but 0, what strange surprise — 
Was pictured in her lover's eyes! 
Liike lightning, from the ground he sprungi 
While wild amazement tied his tongue; 
A statue, motionless, he gazed, 
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed. 
So, looked the gallant Perseus, when 
Medusa's visage met his ken ; 
So, looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye 
Discerned an "air-drawn dagger" nigh; 
And 60, the prince of Denmark stared, 
When first his father's ghost appeared. 

15. At length our hero silence broke, 
And thus, in wildest accents spoke: 
•'Cut off my whiskers! ye gods! 

1 'd sooner lose my ears, by odds ; 
Madam, I 'd not be so disgraced. 
So lost to fashion and to taste. 


To win an empress to my arms; 

Though blest with more than mortal charms. 

My whiskers! zounds!" He said no more, 

But quick retreated through the door, 

And sought a less obdurate fair, 

To take the beau with all his hair. woodsworth. 


1. Gentlemen op the jury: — Can you for an instant 
•appose that my client here, a man that has alers sustained 
a high depredation in society ; a man you all on you suspect 
and esteem for his many good quantities ; yes, gentlemen, a 
man what never drinks more nor a quart of liquor a day; 
can you, I say, for an instant suppose that this 'ere man 
would be guilty of hooking a box of percushams? Txittle 
snakes and coonskins forbid I 

2. Picture to yourselves, gentlemen, a feller fast asleep in 
his log cabin, with his innocent wife and orphan children 
by his side — all nature hushed in deep repose, and nought 
to be heard but the muttering of the silent thunder and the 
hollerin' of bull frogs. Then imagine to yourself a feller 
sneakin' up to the door like a despicable hyena, softly enter- 
ing the dwelling of the peaceful and happy family, and in 
the most mendacious manner hooking a whole box of per- 

3. Gentlemen, I will not, I can not dwell upon the mon- 
strosity of such a scene. My feelings turn from such a 
picture of moral turpentine, just like a big woodchuck would 
turn from my dog Rose. I can not, for an instant, harbor 
the idea that any man in these diggins, much less this 'ere 
man, could be guilty of committing an act of sich rantank- 
erous and uncxtrampled discretion. 

4. And now, gentlemen, after this 'ere brief view of the 
ease, let me retreat of you to make up your minds candidly 
and impractically, and give us sich a verdict as we might 
ren.sonably suspect from sich an enlightened and intolerant 
boJv of our fi'llow-fiti/ony Kcnu'inbor that, in the lau- 

882 ELoci 

guage of the immortal Nimrod, who fell in the Battle of 
Bunker Ilill, " It is better thrtt *o.^ v^n should escape, than 
one guilty should suflfet." DR. valentine. 


1. Qow very absurd is half the stuff 

Called "Poetry," now-a-daysl 
The "Stanzas," and "Epics," and "Odes," are enough 
To put every lover of rhyme in a huff, 

And disgust the old hens with their " lays." 

2. There 's one sighing for " wings to soar o'er the sea," 

And " bask in some distant clime," 
Without ever thinking how "sore" he 
After flying away on such a spree, 

With nothing to eat, the meantime. 

3. Another insists on being a "bird," 

To "fly to his lady-love's bower," 
When he knows that the "lady" to whom he referred 
Don't own such a thing ; for (upon my word) 
In a "yaller" brick house, up in story the third, 

She 's living this very hour. 

4. One asks but "a cave in some forest dell, 

Away from the cold world's strife." 
Now, the woods in fine weather are all very well, 
But give him a six weeks' " rainy spell," 
And he '11 soon " cave in " in his forest cell. 

And be sick enough of the life. 

5. Another one wants his "love to go 

And roam o'er the dark blue sea;" 
Perhaps he don't think, if there " comes on a blow," 
That they 'd botli be sea-sick down below, 

And a wretched pair they 'd be. 

6. Another young man would like to die 

"When the roses bloom in spring." 
Just let him get sick, and he '11 change his cry ; 
His "passing away" is "all in my eye;" 
Of " dreamless sleeps " he gets quite shy ; 

It is n't exactly the thing. 


7. Another would "die and be laid in a doll, 

Beneath some murmuring rill." 
Now, in poetry's jingle, it 'a nice to tell ; 
But a nasty, wet place! — so why not as well 

llave a nice, dry grave on the hill? 

8. One " loves "—how he loves ! — " the glittering foam 

And the mad waves* angry strife." 
Just take the young genius who wrote the pome, 
Where the "billows dash and the sea-birds roam," 
And he 'd give all ho had to be safely at home ; 

lie 'd stay there the rest of his life. 

9. Another young "heart-broken" calls on his "own. 

To cheer him with one sweet smile ;" 
Then he follows it up in a love-sick tone, 
With his "bosom pangs:" (if the truth was known,) 
It is n't the "love" that causes his moan, 

But a superabundance of " bile." 


1. Wb will consider the law, as our laws are very consid- 
erable, both in bulk and magnitude according as the statutes 
declare, considerandi, cotisiderando, cojisiderandum ; and are 
not to be meddled with by those who do not understand 
them. Law always expresses itself with true grammatical 
precision, never confounding words, cases, or genders, ex- 
cept, indeed, when a woman happens to be slain, then the 
verdict is always brought in manslaughter. We all know 
that the essence of the law is altercation ; for the law can 
altercate, fulminate, deprecate, irritate, and go on at any 
rate. Now the quintessence of the law has, according to its 
name, five parts : — the first is the beginning, or incipiendinn ; 

' — tho second, the uncertainty, or dubitandum; — the third, 
delay, or puzzlecndum ; — fourthly, replication without endum; 
— and fifthly, monstrum et horrendum. All of which are 
fully exemplified in the following case of Daniel vertm 


2. Daniel was a groom in the same family in which Dish- 
cloth was cook-maid ; Daniel returning home one day some- 
what fuddled, he stooped down to take a sop out of the 


drippiug-pan ; Dishcloth thereupon laid hold upon Imn, 
and in the struggle pushed him into the dripping-pan, 
which spoiled his clothes. He was advised to bring an 
action against the cook-maid therefor, the pleadings of which 
arc as follows : — 

3. The first counsel who spoke was Mr. Serjeant Snuffle. 
He began with saying: — "Since I 'have the honor to be 
pitched upon to open this case to your lordship, I shall not 
impertinently presume to take up any of your lordship's 
time, by a roundabout, circumlocutory manner of speaking, 
or talking, quite foreign to the purpose, and not anywise 
relating to the matter in band ; I shall — I will — I design 
to show what damages ray client has sustained, hereupon, 
whereupon, and thereupon. Now, my lord, my client being 
a servant in the same family with Dishcloth, and, not being 
at board-wages, imagined he had a right to the fee simple 
t)f the dripping-pan, — therefore, he made an attachment on 
the sop with his right hand, — which the defendant replevied 
with her right hand, — tripped up our heels, and tumbled us 
into the dripping-pan. 

4. Now, in Broughton's Reports, black vs. Smallcoat, it 
is said, primus strokus, sine jocus, absolutes est provokos ; 
now, who gave the primus strokus? Who gave the first 
offense? Why, the cook-maid; she placed the dripping-pan 
there ; for, my lord, though we will allow, if it had not been 
where we icere^ we could not have tumbled where we did — 
yet, my lord — if the dripping-pan had not been where it 
was, we could not have fallen down into the dripping-pan." 

5. The next counsel, on the same side, began with — " My 
lord, he who makes use of many words to no purpose, has 
not much to say for himself; therefore, I shall come to the 
point at once, at once and immediately I shall come to the 
point. My client was in liquor — the liquor in him having 
served an ejectment upon his understanding, common sense 
was non-suited, and he was a man beside himself, or, as 
Doctor Biblicus declares, in his dissertation upon bumpers 
in the one hundred and thirty-ninth folio volume of the 
abridgment of the statutes, page one thousand two hundred 
and eighty-six, thftt a drunken man is a homo duplicans, 


or a double man — not only because be sees things double, 
but also, because be is not as be sbould be, '"pcrfecto ipst — 
but is as be sbould not be, ' defecto tipse.' " 

6. The counsel for the cook-maid rose up gracefully, play- 
ing with his ruffles prettily, and tossing the ties of bis wig 
about emphatically. He began with — " My lud, and gen- 
tlemen of the jury, — T humbly do conceive, 1 have the 
luthority to declare that I am counsel in this case for the 
defendant — therefore, my lud. I shall not flourish away in 
words : words are no more than tillagree works ; some 
people may think them an embellishment; but to me, it is 
a matter of astonishment, how any one can be so imperti- 
nent to use them to the detriment of all rudiments; but, 
my lud, this is not to be looked at through the medium of 
right and wrong; for the law knows no medium, and right 
and wrong are but mere shadows. 

7. "Now, in the first place, they have called a kitchen, 
my client's premises. Now, a kitchen is nobody's premises 
— a kitchen is uot a warehouse, a wash-house, a brew-house, 
an out-house, or an in-house, nor a dwelling-house, nor any 
house — no, my lud, 'tis absolutely and bona fide neither 
more nor less than a kitchen, or, as the law more classically 
expresses it — a kitchen is, camera necessaria pro usos cook- 
are ; cum sauce-panis, stew-panis, scullero, dressero, coal- 
hole, stovis, smoak-jacko, pro roastandum, boilandum, fry- 
andum, et plum-pudding mixandum ; pro turtle supos, calves' 
head bashibus, cum calippe ct calipbashibus. Moreover, we 
fiball not avail ourselves of an alibi, but admit the existence 
of a cook-maid. Now, my lud, we shall take a new ground, 
and beg a new trial — for as they have curtailed our name 
in th«^ir pleadings from plain Mary into Moll, I hope the 
court will not allow of this — for if the court were to allow 
mistakes what would become of the law ? — although where 
there are no mistakes, it is clearly the business of the law 
to make them." 

8. Therefore, the court, after due consideration, granted 
the parties a new trial ; for the law is our liberty, and happy 
it is for us that we have the privilege of going to law. 


Ki»D.— 33 



1. IIere *a a big washing to be done-^ 

One pair of hands to do it — 
Sheets, shirts and stockings, coata and pants, 
llow will I e'er get through it? 

2. Dinner to get for six or more, 

No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; 
And baby cross as he can live — 
He 's always so on Monday. 

3. 'T is time the meat was in the pot, 

The bread was worked for baking, 
The clothes were taken from the boil — 
Oh dear I the baby 's waking I 

4. Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-shi 

I wish he 'd sleep a little, 
'Till I could run and get some wood. 
To hurry up that kettle. 

5 Oh dear ! oh dear ! if P comes hou>e. 

And finds things in this pother, 
He '11 just begin and tell me all 
About his tidy mother! 

6. How nice her kitchen used to be, 

Her dinner always ready 
Exactly when the noon-bell rang — 
Ilush, hush, dear little Freddy! 

7. And then will come some hasty words, 

Right out before I 'm thinking, — 
They say that hasty words from wive» 
Set sober men to drinking. 

8. Now, is not that a great idea. 

That men should take to sinning. 
Because a weary, half-sick wife, 
Can't always smile so winning? 

9. When I was young I used to earn 

My living without trouble, 
llad clothes and pocket-money, too, 
And hours of leisure double. 


10. 1 never dreamed of such a fate, 
Whca I, a-lass I was courted — 
Wife, mother, nurne, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, chambermaid, 
laundress, dairy woman, and scrub generally, doing the work of 

For the sake of being supported ! 

MRS. F. D. GAQk. 


1. Not have me I Not love me! Oh, what have I said? 
Sure, never was lover so strangely misled. 
Rejected I and just when I hoped to be blessed I 
You can't be in earnest ! It must be a jest. 

-. Remember — remember how often I've knelt. 
Explicitly telling you all that I felt, 
And talked about poison in accents so wild. 
So very like torture, you started — and smiled. 

3. Not have me I Not love me I Oh, what have I done ? 
All natural nourishment did I not shun? 

My figure is wasted; my spirits are lost; 

And my eyes are deep sunk, like the eyes of a ghost. 

4. Remember, remember — ay, madam, you must — 
I once was exceedingly stout and robust; 

I rode by your palfrey ; I came at your call, 
And nightly went with you to ban'^uet aiid ball. 

5. Not have me! Not love me ! Re)cc<-ed 1 Refused 1 
Sure, never was lover so strangely ill-used ! 
Consider my presents — I do n't mean to boasi — 
But, madam, consider the money they cost! 

6. Remember vom th^m; and just can it ot 
To take all my trinkets, and not to take mo ? 

Nay, do n't throw them at me 1 You'll break do no 

start — 
I do n't mean my gift* — ^but you will break my heart I 

7. Not have me 1 Not love me ! Not go to the chtirdi I 
Sure, never was lover so left in the lurch! 

My brain in distrnct'»d, my f«*e!injr^ :»re hurt; 
Oh, madam 


8. Remember my letters; my passion thev : 1 ; 
Yes, all sorts of letters, save letters ot* gold ; 

The amount of my notes, too— the notes that I penned, 
Not bank notes — no, truly, 1 had -end ! 

9. Not have me! Not love me I And is it, then, true 
That opulent Ago is the lover for you? 

'Gainst rivalry's bloom I would strive — 't is too much 
To yield to the terror of rivalry's crutch. 

10. Ilemember — remember I might call him out; 
But, madam, you are not worth fighting about ; 
My sword shall be stainless, in blade, and in hilt: 
I thought you a jewel — I find you a jilt. 


1. TuERE 's some thing on my breast, father, 

There 's some thing on my breast ; 
The live-long day, I spend in sighs ; 
At night I can not rest. 

2. I can neither sleep nor eat, father; 

Though I would fain do so; 
A heavy load oppresseth me — 
A heavy load of woe. 

3. 'T is not the lack of gold, father, 

Nor lack of worldly gear; 
My lands are broad and rich, father, 
My friends are kind and dear. 

4. My kin— they all are true, father, 

And mourn to see my grief: 
But oh ! H is not a kinsman's hand 
Can give my heart relief. 

5. 'T is not that Mary 's false, father, 

'T is not that she 's unkind. 
Though busy flatterers swarm around, 
I know her constant mind. 

6. It is not that, nor all of those. 

That chills my troubled breast- 
It 's those confounded cucumbers, 
I 've eat, and can 't digest 



To MARRr, or not to marry ? that 's the question. 

Whether 't is nobler in the bach to suffer 

The jeers and banters of outrageous females, 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And by proposing, end them. To court ; to marry. 

To be a bach no more: and, by a marriage end 

The heart-ache, and the thourjand and one ills 

Bachelors are heir to ; 't is a consummation 

Devoutly to be wished. To court, to marry; 

To marry ! perchance to rue — ay, there 's the rub ; 

For in that state what afterthoughts may come, 

When wo have shuffled off this bachelor coil. 

Must bring repentance. There 's the respect 

That makes men live so long a single life, 

For who would bear the scorn of pretty girls, 

The hints of widows,- the insolence of married men, 

The inconveniences of undarned socks. 

And thread-bare coats, and shirts with buttons off. 

The pangs of love-fits, and the misery 

Of sleeping with cold feet, the dumps, the blues. 

The horrors and the owl-like loneliness ; 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare "will you have me?" Who would bear 

To fret and groan under a single life, 

But that the dread of something after marriage — 

That undiscovered net-work from whose meshes 

No venturer escapes, puzzles the will 

And makes us rather bear the ills wo have 

Than fly to others that wo know not of? 


The awkward, untried speaker rises now. 

And to the audience makes a jerking Ik>w. 

lie staggers — almost falls — stares — strokes his chin-- 

Clcars out his throat, and . . ventures to begin. 

"Sir, I am . . sensible" — (some titter near him) — 

"I am, sir, sensible" — "Hear! hear!" (they cljcor him.) 

Now holder grown — for praise mistaking pother — 

lie pumps first one arm up, and then the other. 


, " 1 am, sb, sensible — I am indeed — 

That, . . though — I should — want — words — I must proceed 

And . . for the first time in my life, I thick — 

I think— that — no great— orator — should- «brink-- 

And, therefore, — Mr. Speaker, — I, for onj — 

Will . . speak out freely. — Sir — I 've noi yet done. 

Sir, in the name of those enlightened men 

Who sent me here to . . speiik for them — why, then . . 

To do my duty — as I said lefore— 

To my constituency — I '11 . . say no mora" 


L A Frexchman once, who was a merry wight. 
Passing to town from Dover in the night. 
Near the roadside an ale-house chanced to spy 
And being rather tired as well as dry, 
Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep. 
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. 
He enters: '* Hallo ! Gar^on, if you please. 
Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese. 
And hallo ! Gar<jon, a pot of porter, too I" he said. 
** Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." 

2. nis supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, 
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft. 
Into his pocket put ; then slowly crept 

To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept — 
For, on the floor some sacks of flour were laid. 
To which the rats a nightly visit paid. 
Our hero now undressed, popped out the light, 
Put on his cap and bade the world good-night; 
But first his breeches, which contained the fare. 
Under his pillow he had placed with care. 

3. Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran, 
And on the flour-sacks greedily began ; 

At which they gorged themselves ; then smelling round, 

Under the piilow soon the cheese they found ; 

And while at this they all regaling sat, 

Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's nap; 

Who, half-awake, cries out, " Ilallo ! hallo 1 

Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so ? 


A.h 1 't is one big, one very big, huge rai I 
Vftt is it that he nibble, nibble at ?" 

4. In vain our little hero sought repose; 
Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his nose; 
And such the pranks they kept up all the night, 
That he, on end antipodes upright, 

Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light. 

" Hallo ! Mai son ! Gar<jon, I say ! 

Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay I" 

The bill was brought, and to his great surprise, 

Ten shillings was the charge, he scarce belieyes his eyes. 

With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er. 

And every time he viewed it thought it more. 

5. "Vy zounds, and zounds 1" he cries, "I sail no pay; 
Vat charge ten shelangs for vat I have mange? 

A leetel sop of portar, dis vile bed, 

Vare all de rats do run about my head?" 

"Plague on those rats I" the landlord muttered out; 

"I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout: 

I '11 pay him well that can." "Vat 's dat you say?" 

"I '11 pay him well that can." "Attend to me I pray: 

Vil you dis charge forego, vat I am at, 

If from your house I drive away de rati" 

"With all my heart," the jolly host replies. 

" Ecoutez done, ami ;" the Frenchman cries. 

" First, den — Regardez, if you please, 

Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese : 

Eh bien ! a pot of porter, too ; 

And den invite de rats to sup vid you : 

And after dat — no matter dey be villi ng — 

For dat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang: 

And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, 

Dey 'U quit your house, and never come no more." 


1. The moon was shining silver bright, 

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
When freedom from the mountain hight 
Exclaimed " Now, don't be foolish. Joe !" 


2. An hour passed on, the Turk awoke, 

A bumble bee went thundering by, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
And spread its pall up(»n tlic sky. 

3. His echoing axe the settler swung, 

He was a lad of high renown ; 
And deep the pearly caves among, 
Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown, 

4. Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast. 

And cloudless sots the sun at even; 
When twilight dews are falling fast. 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven ! 

5. Oh, < ' ! hood's hour, 

By UToii ana trumpet fast arrayed; 
Beneath yon ivy-mantled tower, 
The bull-frog croaks his serenade. 

6. My love is like the red, red rose, 

He bought a ring with posy true ; 
Sir Barney Bodkin broke his nose, 
And. Saxon, I am Rhoderick Dhul 


1. Fellow Citizens: — This is the ever adorable, corn- 
memorable, and patriotic Fourth of July. This am the day 
upon which the American Eagle first chawed up its iron 
catre. and, with a Yankee Doodle scream, pounced upon its 
afTrightcd tyrants and tore up their despotic hablimeiits into 
a thousand giblets. 

2. This, fellow citizens, am the Fourth of July — a day 
worthy to be the first-day of the year, and a day which will 
be emblazoned by our latest posterity, when all other days 
have sunk into oblivious noji compos mrnfis. 

3. This, fellow citizens, am the day when our ancestral 
progBnitors unanimously fought, bled and died, in order 
that we and our childrens' children might cut their own 
vine and fg tree without being molested or daring to make 
any one afraid. 



4. This am the Fourth of July, fellow citizens, and who 
is there that can sit supinely downward on this prognostic 
anniversary, and not revert their mental reminesences to the 
great epochs of the Revolution — to the blooi bespangled 
plains of Bunker Hill, Monmouth, Yorktown, and folloM 
the heroic herocfs of those times through trackless snows, 
and blood-stained deserts, to the eternal mansions of free 
trade and sailor's rights; and the adoreable enjoyments of 
the privelidges and prerogatives, which fall like heavenlj 
dew upon every American citizen, from the forests of Maine 
to the everglades of Florida ; and from the fisheries of the 
Atlantic coast to the yellow banks of California, where the 
jingling of the golden boulders mixes up with the screams 
of the catamount, and the mountain goat leaps from rock 
to rock — and — and where — and — and — I thank you. fellow 
citizens, for your considerable attention. 


1. Now, Mr. Smith, who had taken his leave, 

"Was a prudcntish sort of a man ; 
He always said to prevent, not retrieve, 

Was far the properest plan ; 
So, to hinder heart-burning and jealous hate 

And contending heirs make still. 
Before ho surrendcrod himself to fate 

lie prudently framed a will. 
But ho kept it shut from mortal look, 

Nor could any define its tone ; 
To the favored to-be 't was a close-scaled book, 

As well as the destined-to-none. 
So hopo ran strong and hope ran high 

In every degree of kin ; 
For virtues of Smith was breathed many a sigh. 

But smiles were reserved for his tin. 

2 Nor wife nor child 

On Smitli liad e'er smiled, 

To inherit the money for which he had toiled; 

And ' ' ' ' nearer kin than uncles or oouaina. 


lUit til' i ill iiuin! /.ens. 

Now, cold \v:i.s 1118 clay, 

And appointed the day 

When his will was to open in legal way; 

And the Bummons was put in the "Post," and all 

Of tho "next of kin" were invited to call 

To see what share to their lut woulcl fall ; 

And every heir 

Had assembled there 

From sea and land, and no one knows where: 

There was Smith from the plain, 
And Smith from tho still, 

And Smith from the main, 
And Smith from the mill. 

And Smith from tho mountain, 
Aryl Smith from the mart. 

And Smith from the fountain, 
And Smith froir ♦*•" " "^ • 
From the farthest off 
The Smiths all came t;i w , t )i u. 

3. Ar' *' '-'" -* 

Taikm;; all about this and that, 
"While the clock near the door 
Was watched more and more 
As the minute-hand neared the hour of four — 
The hour set when the opening seal 
Til oil- joy or their chagrin would reveal. 
( '• \"» ;iich a pot and 't will never boil," 

lla.>ieu time — 't is an up-hill toil ; 
Watch a clock fur tlie hour to go, 
'T is the weariest work a man can knt w ; 
And thus as they watched their patience waned, 
Though not a voice of the mass complained, 
For they thought it would n't be prudent to show 
Thn-; they were aught anxious their doom to know 

4. Four struck at last, and, in eager array, 
They gathered around an old man gray, 
Who straightway out from its iron nook 
Mr. Smith's very "last will" then took, 
Nicely with black tape strongly tied, 
With a huge black seal on either side. 


The click of the shears, as the threads did part, 
Went with a thrill to each waiting heart, 
And then with anxious ear they hung 
Upon every word from that old man's tongue. 

5. His " soundness of mind " 
And his creed were defined, 

And then came the names to whom he was kind , 

A cane to this, 

And a box to that; 

To one his dog, 
Another his cat ; 

To this his buckles, 
To this his hat; 
Till, through the long list of legacies run. 
The name of the heir was lighted upon ; 
When, in tones like the tones of a bell, 
These were the words from his will that fell:— 
"And further, I, John, 
Ilave tixcd upon, 

To till my place upon earth when I 'm gone, 
John Smith the tenth, to be my heir. 
My bouse to maintain and my honors to bear." 

6. Now, here was a stew 
To know what to do, 

Or who the fortune had fallen to; 

They could n't tell, were they to bo shot, 

For fifteen Johns were then on the spot; 

And which was the tenth with the prefix "John" 

They were sadly at loss to fix upon. 

Then they argued the matter early and late. 

But doubting grew with the growing debate. 

7. And law-suits gathered, and fees flew free, 
And juries tried it and could n't agree. 
And fortunes were spent, till hope was gone. 
In finding who was the favored John! 

But they found instead that it would n't pay. 
And 80 in court they allowed it to lay 
In the dust and rust of years piled away. 

8. A century is it since John Smith died, 
And }>■>- f-'^iiv Tinme ia scattered wide. 


And towns haTo arisen upon his broad land, 

Prosperity beaming on every hand ; 

A factory hums o'er his old hearth-stone, 

Bat John Smith the tenth one was never known, 

And John Smith's will will in chancery be, 

Till Time is lost in Eternity's sea« shillabke. 


Judge. What do you follow for a livelihood? 

Witneu. Nothing in particular, your honor. 

Judge. You do not appear to have any property ; how 
do you get your bread? 

Witnett. Sometimes, sur, I get it at Mr. 0' Tool's, 
sometimes at Dennis McFarland's. and sometimes at the 
grocery round the corner. 

Judge. Stop, you do n t understand me; I mean, how 
do you support yourself? 

Witness. I support myself on a chair, in the day-time, 
and on a bed in the night-time, sur. 

Judge. I do n't sit here to be trifled with by such fel- 
lows as you ! Are you a mechanic ? 

Witness. No, sur, I am a Presbyterian. 

Judge. Come, sir, if you do n't answer my question, I '11 
have you taken care of 

Witness. Troth, and if ycr honor will do that same, I 
shall be dapely obliged to you, for the times arc so hard 
that I can hardly take care of myself. 

Judge. T believe you are an idle vagabond. 

Witness. Ter honor is very slow of belief, or you would 
have found that out some time ago. 

Judge. What do you know of the case before the court ? 

Witness. Nothing at all, sur. 

Judge. Then why do you stand there? 

Witness. Because I have no chair in which to sit down, 

Judge. Go about your business. 



1. There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you 're in a little bettei 
temper than you were this morning. There, you need n't 
begin to whistle : people don't come to bed to whistle. But 
it 's like you ; I ean 't speak, that you do n't try to insult me. 
Once, I used tc say you were the best creature living : now, 
you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let 
Tou rest. It 's the only time I have to talk to you, and you 
uluill hear me. I 'm put upon all day long : it 's very hard 
if I can't speak a word at night; and it is n't often I open 
my mouth, goodness knows ! 

2. liecause once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a but- 
ton, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You 
didu't swear?. 11a, Mr. Caudle ! you do n't know what you 
do when you 're in a passion. You were not in a passion, 
wcr'nt you? Well, then I do n't know what a passion is; 
and 1 think I ought by this time. I 've lived long enough 
with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. 

3. It 's a pity you hav 'nt something worse to complain 
of than a button off your shirt. If you 'd some wives, you 
would, I know. I 'm sure I 'm never without a needle-and- 
thread in my hand ; what with you and the children, I 'm 
made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, 
if onoe in your life a button 's off your shirt — what do you 
say 'aA' at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three 
times, at most. I 'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the 
world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I 'd 
kept the shirts you had when you were first married ! I 
.should like to know where were your buttons then ? 

4. Yes, it is worth talking of! But that 's how you always 
try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if 1 
only try to speak, you won't hear mo. That 's how you men 
always will have all the talk to yourselves : a poor woman 
is n't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have 
of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of hut her bus 
band'.s buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of mar- 
ria;;e. Ila I if poor women only knew what they had to go 
t' ' ' ^*''  ^vith Itutt'V- - '.' ! ^10 tliiriir and another! 


They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the wcrld, 
I 'di sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? — Why, do 
much better without you, I 'm certain. 

5. And it 's my belief, after all, that the button was n't off 
the shirt; it 's my belief that you pulled it off, that you 
might have something to talk about. Oh, you 're aggravat- 
ing enough, when you like, for any thing 1 All 1 know is, 
it 's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for 
I'm sure no woman 's a greater slave to her husband's but- 
tons than I am. I only say it 's very odd. 

6. However, there 's one comfort ; it can't last long, i di 
worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a 
great while.' Ha, you may laugh 1 And I dare say you 
would laugh I I 'vo no doubt of it 1 That 's your love ; that 's 
your feeling! I know that I 'm sinking every- day, though 
I say nothing about it. And when I 'm gone, we shall see 
how your second wife will look alter your buttons ! You '11 
find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you '11 think of 
me, then ; for then, I hope, you '11 never have a blessed 
button to your back. Douglas jerrold. 


1. Gentlemen op the Jury : — You are sworn in all cases 
to decide according to the evidence; at the same time, if 
you have any doubt, you are bound to give the prisoner the 
benefit of it. Suppose you have to pronounce on the guilt 
or innocence of a gentleman accused of felony. You will 
naturally doubt whether any gentleman would commit such 
offences ; accordingly, however strong may be the testimony 
against him, you will, perhaps, acquit him. The evidence 
of your own senses is, at least, as credible as that of the 
witnesses; if, therefore, your eyesight convince you that the 
prisoner is a well-dressed person, you have a right to pre- 
sume his respectability ; and it is for you to say whether a 
respectable person would be likely to be guilty of the crimes 
imputed to him. 

2. In like manner, when you see a shabby-looking fellow 


lu the dock, charged, for example, with sheep stealing, the 
decision rests with you, first, whether or not that individual 
is a ragainufl5n, and, secondly, how fur it is probable that 
a man of that description would steal sheep. Of course, a« 
has been before said, you will always be guided by the eyi 
denco; but, then, whether the evidence is trustworthy or 
not. is a matter for your private consideration. You may 
believe it if you choose, or you may disbelieve it; and 
whether, gentlemen of the jury, you will believe it or dis- 
believe it will depend on the constitution of your minds. 

II. If your minds are so constituted that you wish to find 
the prisoner guilty, perhaps you will believe it ; if they 
happen to be so constituted that you desire to find him not 
guilty, why then, very likely, you will disbelieve it. You 
are to free your minds from all passion and prejudice, if 
you can, and, in that case, your judgment will be unbiased: 
but if you can not, you will return a verdict accordingly. 
Tt is not, strictly speaking, for you to consider what will be 
the efi"ect of your verdict; but if such a consideration should 
occur to you, and you can not help attending to it, that 
verdict will be influenced by it to a certain extent. 

4. You are probably aware that when you retire, you will 
be locked up until you contrive to agree. You may arrive 
at unanimity by fair discussion, or by some of you starving 
out the others, or by tossing up; and your conclusion, by 
which ever of these processes arrived at, will bo more or less 
in accordance with your oaths. Your verdict may be right ; 
it is to be hoped it will : it may bo wrong ; it is to be hopp^ 
it will not. At all events, gentlemen of the jury, you w;*^ 
come to some conclusion or other ; unless it should so haf 
pen that you separate without coming to any. punch. 


I RZjiLLT take it very kind — 
This visit, Mrs. Skinner; 

I have not seen you such an age — 
(Tho wrntch has come to illnnor!) 


Yt)ur daughters, too — what loves of girls — 
What heads for painters' easels I 

Come here, and kiss the infant, dears — 
(And give it, p'rhaps, the measles!) 

2. Your charming boys, I sec, are home, 

From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 
'T was very kind to bring them both — 

(What boots for my new Brussels!) 
What! little Clara left at home? 
• Well, now, I call that shabby ! 

I should have loved to kiss her so — 

(A flabby, dabby babby!) 

3. And Mr. S., I hope he 's well — 

But, though he lives so handy. 
He never once drops in to sup — 

(The better for our brandy!) 
Come, take a seat — I long to hear 

About Matilda's mtirriage; 
You 've come, of course, to spend the day-^ 

(Thank Ileavenl I hear the carriage!) 

4. What! must you go? — next time, I hope, 

You '11 give me longer measure. 
Nay, I shall see you down the stairs — 

(With most uncommon pleasure !) 
Good bye I good bye ! Remember, all, 

Next time you '11 take your dinners — 
(Now, David, mind — I 'm not at home, 

In future, to the Skinners.) hood 


The daughter sits in the parlor. 

And rocks on her .easy-chair, 
She is dressed in silks and satins. 

And jewels are in her hair ; 
She winks, and giggles, and simpers, 

And simpers, and giggles, and winks : 
And though she talks but little, 

It 's vastly more than she thinks. 


2. Her father goes clad in russet — 

All dirty and seedy at that: 
His coat is out at the elbows, 

And he wears a shccking bad hat. 
He is hoarding and saving his dollars. 

So carefully, day by day, 
While she on her whims and fancies 

Is squandering them all away. 

3. She lies in bed of a morning 

Until the hour of noon, 
Then comes down, snapping and snarling 

Because she 's called too soon. 
Her hair is still in papers. 

Her cheeks still dabbered with paint- 
Remains of last night's blushes 

Before she attempted to faint. 

4. Her feet are so very little, 

Her hands are so very white, 
Her jewels so very heavy, 

And her head so very light; 
Her color is made of cosmetics — 

Though this she 'U never own ; 
Her body is mostly cotton, 

And her heart is wholly stone. 

5. She falls in love with a fellow 

Who swells with a foreign air ; 
He marries her for her money, 

She marries him for his hair. 
One of the very best matches ; 

Both are well mated in life ; 
She 's got a fool for a husband, 

And he 's got a fool for a wife. 


Mr. Orator Purr had two tones in his voice. 

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so; 
In each sentence he uttered .he gave you your choice, 
For one-half was B alt, and the rest below, 
Oh 1 oh ! Orator Puff, 
Ono Toioe for an orator 'n surely enough. 
Kjdd -34 


2. Bat lio still talked away, spito of coughs and of frowns 
So distracting all ears with his ups and his ''"^r"^ 
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, 
"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which oi tnem pia7 ?' 
Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff, 


8. Reeling homeward, one cvenin;;. top-heavy with gin, 

And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crcwn, 
lie tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, 

"Sinkini: futnl," the last words as his noddle came down 
Oh: or Puff, 

One .v,.v. ...;• ■"• ..,-.. for 's surely enough. 

4 "Ohl save'" ^^^ ^-^ i, iu his he-and-she-tones, 

"Help ni< out I — I have broken my, bones 1" 

" IIolp you oin ; ' .sum a Padl  " ' passed, "what a botherl 
V\\y, til. TO 's two of you thci you help one another?" 

Oh 1 oh ! Orator Puff, 

One voice for an orator 's surely enough. 



1. I 'm thinking just now of Nobody, 

And all that Nobody 's done, 
For I *ve a passion for Nobody, 

That Nobody else would own ; 
I bear the name of Nobody, 

For from Nobody I sprung; 
And I sing the praise of Nobody, 

As Nobody mine has sung. 

2. In life's morning Nobody 

To me was tender and dear ; 
And my cradle was rocked by Nobody, 

And Nobody was ever near: 
I was petted and praised by Nobody, 

And Nobody brought me up ; 
And when I was hungry, Nobody 

Gave me to dine or to sup. 

3. I went to school to Nobody, 

And Nobody taught me to read ; 


I played in the street with Nobody, 
And to Nobody ever gave heed; 

I recounted my tnle to Nobody, 
For Nobody was willing to hear; 

And my heart it clung to Nobody, 
And Nobody shed a tear. 

4. And when I grew older, Nobody 

Gave me a helping turn ; 
And by the good aid of Nobody 

I began my living to earn: 
And hence I courted Nobody, 

And said Nobody's I 'd be, 
And asked to marry Nobody, 

And Nobody married me. 

6. Thus I trudge along with Nobc#y, 

And Nobody cheers my life; 
And I have a love for Nobody 

Which Nobody has for his wife. 
So here 's a health to Nobody, 

For Nobody 's now in town, 
And I 've a passion for Nobody, 

That Nobody else would own. 


1. Ellen was fair, and knew it, too. 
As other village beauties do, 
Whose mirrors never lie ; 
Secure of any swain she chose, 
She smiled on half a dozen beaux. 
And, reckless of a lover's woes, 
She cheated these, and taunted those; 
"For how could any one suppose 
A clown could take her eye?" 

2 But whispers through the village ran. 
That Edgar was the happy man, 
The maid designed to bless; 
For, wheresoever moved the fair. 
The youth was, like her shadow, thert^ 
And rumor boldly matched the pair, 
r 'llage folks will guess. 


3. Edgar did love, bu^ ii«l 
To make confession to tlie maid, 

So bafshful was the youth: 
Certain to meet a kind return, 
lie let the flame in secret burn, 
Till from his lips the maid should learn 

Officially the truth. 

4. At length, one mom, to take the air, 
Tlie youth and maid, in one-horse chair, 

A ^mg excursion took. 

id nerved his bashful heart, 
ine sweet confession to impart. 
For, ah I suspense had caused a smart. 

He could no longer brook. 

5. He dt^e, nor slackened once his reins, 
Till Hempstead's wide extended plains 

Seemed joined to skies above: 
Nor house, nor tree, nor slinib was near, 
The rude and dreary ^ heer, 

Nor soul within ten mi.^- ; ir — 

And still poor Edgar^s silly tear, 

Forbade to speak of love. 

§. At last, one desperate effort broke 
The bashful spell, and Edgar spoke. 

With most persuasive tone ; 
Recounted past attendance o'er. 
And then, by all that 's lovely, swore, 
That he would love, forever more. 

If she 'd become his own. 

7. The maid, in silence, heard his prayer. 
Then, with a most provoking air, 

She tittered in his face ; 
And said, *' 'T is time for you to know, 
A lively girl must have a beau, 
Just like a reticule — for show ; 
And at her nod to come, and go — 

But he should know his place. 

8. Your penetration must be dull, 
To let a hope within your skull 

Of matrimony spring. 


Your wife ! ha, ha ! upon my word, 
The thought is laughably absurd, 
As any thing I ever heard — 

I never dreamed of such a thing." 

9 The lover sudden dropped his rein. 
When on the center of the plain— 

"The linch-pin 's out!" he cried; 
" Be pleased one moment to alight. 
Till I can set the matter right, 

That we may safely ride." 

10. lie said, and handed out the fair — 
Then laughing, cracked his whip in air. 
And wheeling round his horse and chair, 
Exclaimed, " Adieu, I leave you there 

In solitude to roam." • 
" What mean you, sir I" the maiden cried, 
" Did you invite me out to ride, 
To leave me here, without a guide? 

Nay, stop, and take me home." 

11. "What I take you home I" exclaimed the boau, 
" Indeed, my dear, I 'd like to know 

IIow such a hopeless wish could grow. 

Or in your bosom spring. 
What! take Ellen home? ha I ha! upon my wori, 
The thought is laughably absurd. 
As any thing I ever heard; 

I never dreamed of such a thing 1" 


1 It chanced to be our washing day, 
Ana all our things were drying, 

The storm came roaming through the lines 

And set them all a-flying; 

I SAW the shirta and petticoats 

Go riding off like witches, 

I lost ah! bitterly I wept, 

I lost my Sunday breeches. 

2 I saw them straddling through the air, 
Alasl too late to win them, 


1 Haw thein chase the clouds as if 
The mischief had been in them. 
They were my darlings and my pride, 
My boyhood's only riches ; 
Farewell, farewell, I faintly cried, 
My breeches, 0, my breeches. 

3. That night I saw them in my dreams, 
IIow changed from what I knew them ; 
The dew had steeped their faded seams, 
The wind had whistled through them ; 

I saw the wide and ghastly rents 
Where demon claws had torn tliem: 
A hole was in their hinder parts 
As if an imp had worn them. 

4. I hope had many happy years 
And tailors kind and clever; 

But those young pantaloons have gone 

Forever and forever; 

And not till fate has cut the last 

Of all my earthly stitches. 

This aching heart shall cease to mourn 

My loved — my long lost breeches. 


1. Fellow Citizens: — I am, as you all know, a modest 
and unassuming man. I was born at an early period of 
my existence, in old Franklin County, and until I was nearly 
fourteen years of age, was entirely withotft parentage. 

2. I had to struggle with obscurity, to which an unlucky 
star had confined me, until I was enabled to rise among my 
fellow citizens like a bright exaltation of the morning ; but 
if it had not been for the goodness of several old ladies, 
who gave me an edication, I might have been as ignorant 
as common people, or, even as you, fellow citizens. 

3. Friends and fellow citizens ! although I do not feel 
exactly tantamount to equivalent to addressing you on the 
momentous questions now agitating this conflictuous com- 
munity, yet I intend to speak my sentiments fearlessly, in 


the course of my remarks upon what I shall allude to, 
while I am discoursing before you ; and I now declare that 
the crisis which were to have arriven have arroven. 

4. I tell you this question ought to be severed down upon 
the heads of the people. We want the blood and spirit of 
our ancestral progenitors, who were not afraid to run th« 
gauntelope of public opinion. 

5. The wheels of government are stopped ; the majestic 
ship of state which, like a Shanghai rooster on a rickety 
hen coop, was floating calmly down the peaceful stream of 
time, is now fast drifting upon the rocks and quick sands 
of disunion, soon to be dashed into a thousand flinters, 
unless you jump into the rescue, and avoid the terrible 
calamity by electing me to Congress. 

6. Fellow citizens! I entreat and beseeCh of you, hearken 
not to the siren voice that whispers in your credulous ears 
the delusive sounds of peace and harmony; for in our leg- 
islative halls, confusion, riot, and anarchy reign supreme. 
Then, arouse you; shake the dew drops from your hunting 
shirts ; sound the tocsin ; beat the drum, and blow the horn 
until the startled echoes, reverberating from hill top to hill 
top, shall cause the adamantine mountains of New England, 
the ferruginous soil of Missouri, and the auriferous particles 
of California to prick up their ears, and inquire of their 
neighbors, what can the matter be? 

7. Fellow citizens; I repeat it. To your posts! and, from 
the topmost mountains of the Alleghanics bid defiance to 
the universal airth, by shouting our terrific watchword, 
[lail Columbia, in such thunder tones, that the enemies of 
wur country shall be utterly scatterlophisticated before the 
morDing sun reaches to the full zenith of his meridian bight 


To spout, or not to spout, that is the question ; 
Whether 't is better for a shame-faced fellow, 
With voice unmusical and gesture awkward, 
To stand a mere spectator in this business. 
Or have a touch of rhetoric ? To speak— to spout, 
No more : and by this eflbrt, to say wo end 


Thut boshfulncss, that nervous trepidation, 

Displayed in maiden speeches — 't were a consummation 

Devoutly to be wished. To read— to speechify 

Before folks — perhaps to fail ! — ay, there ^s the rub ; 

For from that ill success what sneers may rise, 

Ere we have scrambled through the sad oration, 

Must give us pause. 'T is the same reason, 

That makes a novice stand in hesitation, 

And gladly hide his own diminished head 

Beneath some half-fledged orator's importance, 

When he himself might his quietus make 

By a mere recitation. Who would speeches hear 

Responded to, with hearty acclamation. 

And yet restrain himself from holding forth. 

But for the dread of some unlucky failure — 

Some unforseen mistake — some frightful blunder — 

Some vile pronunciation and inflection. 

Improper emphasis or wry-necked period. 

Which carping critics note and raise the laugh, 

Not to our credit, nor so soon forgot? 

We muse on this 1 Then starts the pithy question, 

Had we not best be mute and hide our faults. 

Than spout to publish them ? 


1 Mr. Foreman and Toder Jurymens: — Hans peen 
dntd for murder pefore you, and you must pring in te 
verdict; put it must pe 'cordin' to law. 

2. De man he kill'd vash n't kill'd at all, as vas broved ; 
he is in ter chail, at Morristown, for sheep stealing. Put 
dat ish no matter; te law says ven ter ish a doubt you 
give him to ter brisoner ; put here ter ish no doubt, zo you 
see ter brisoner ish guilty. 

3. Pesides, he ish a great loafer, I have known him fifty 
years, and he has not done any work in all dat times; and 
dere is no one depending upon him for dere living, for he 
ish no use to nopody. 

4. I dinks, derfore, Mr. Foreman, he petter pe hung next 
Fourth of July, as der militia is going to drain in anoder 
county, and dere will be noting going on here. 



] Manv a long, long year ago, 

Nantucket skippers had a plan 
Of finding out, though " lying low," 

How near New York their schooners ran. 

2. They greased the lead before it fell, 

And then by sounding, through the night, 
Knowing the soil that stuck so well, 
They always guessed their reckoning right. 

3. A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim. 

Could tell, by tasting, just the spot. 
And so below he 'd " douse the glim " — 
After, of course, his " something hot." 

4. Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock. 

This ancient skipper might be found ; 
No matter how his craft would rock, 
lie slept — for skippers' naps are sound. 

5. The watch on deck would now and then 

Kun down and wake him, with the lead; 
He 'd up, and taste, and tell the men 
How many miles they went ahead. 

6. One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, 

A curious wag — the pedlar's son ; 
And so he mused, (the wanton wretch 1) 
'* To-night I '11 have a grain of fun. 

7. " We 're all a set of stupid fools. 

To think the skipper knows, by tasting, 
What ground he 'b on ; Nantucket schools 

Do n't teach such stuff, with all their basting!" 

8. And 80 he took the well-gre|Med lead, 

And rubbed it o'er a box of earth 
That stood on deck — (a parsnep-bed,) 
And then he sought the skipper's berth. 

9. "Where arei||6 now, sir? Please to taate," 

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, 
And oped his eyes iu wondrous haste, 
Aud then upon the floor he sprung I 
KiDu. — i{5 


IG. The skipper stonned, and tore his hair, 

Thrust on his boots, and roared to Harden, 
"Nanincket 's sunk, and here we are. 
Right over old Marm Ilackett's garden \" 



1. Of all the funny things that liv# 

In woodland, marsh, or bog. 
That creep the ground, or fly the air, 

The funniest is the fVog. 
The frog — the scientifickest 

Of Nature's handiwork — 
The frog, that neither walks nor runs, 

But goes it with a jerk. 

2. With pants and coat of bottle green. 

And yellow fancy vest, 
lie plunges into mud and mire. 

All in his Sunday best. 
He has his trials by the lump. 

Yet holds himself quite cool ; 
For when they come, he gives a jump, 

And drowns 'em in the pool. 

3. There I see him sitting on that log, 

Above the dirty deep; 
You feel inclined to say, "Old chap, 

Just look before you leap I" 
You raise your cane to hit him, on 

Ilis ugly-looking mug; 
But, ere you get it half way up, 

Adown he goes, ker chug. 


1. Not a sous had he got, — not a guinea or note, 

And he looked confoundedly flurried, 
As he bolted away without paying his shot. 
And the landlady after him hurried. 

2. We saw him again at dead of night. 

When home from the club returning; 




We twigged the doctor beneath the light 
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. 

8. All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, 
Reclined in the gutter we found him ; 
And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze 
AVith his Marshall cloak around him. 

4. " The doctor 'b as drunk as he can be," we said. 

And we managed a shutter to borrow ; 
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head 
Would " consumedly ache " on the morrow. 

5. We carried him home, and put him to bed, 

And we told his wife and his daughter 
To give him, next morning, a couple of red 
Herrings, with iced soda-water, 

0. Loudly they talked of his money that 's gone, 
And his lady began to upbraid him ; 
But little he recked, so they let him snore on 
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. 

7. We tucked him in, and had hardly done, 

AVhen, beneath the window calling, 
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun 
Of a watchman, ** One o'clock !" bawling. 

8. Slowly and sadly we all walked down 

From his room in the uppermost story ; 
A rush-light we placed on the cold hearth-stone. 
And we left him alone in his glory I 



1. Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint 
(|uito so well as I have been; but I think I'm some bettor 
than I was. I 'do n't think that last medicine you gin mo 
did me much good. 1 had a terrible time with the car ache 
last night J my wife got up and drapt a few draps of Wal 
nut sap into it, and that relieved it some ; but I did n't get 
a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, 
l>'> • had the worst kind of a narvoua h«ikd-»<jhe; 

412 ELOCUTioy. 

it has been so bad sometimes tliat I thought my head would 
bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the 
most afllictcdest human that ever lived. 

2. Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, 
that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has 
began to pester me agin. (^Coughs.) Doctor, do you think 
jou can give me any thing that will relieve this desprit pain 
I have in my side? 

8. Then I have a crick, at times, in the hwik of my neck, 
so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of 
my body. (^Coughs.) 

4. Oh dear ! What shall I do ! I have consulted almost 
every doctor in the county, but they do n't any of them 
seem to understand my case. I have tried every thing that 
I could think of; but I can't find any thing that does me 
the leastest good. (^Coughs.) 

5. Oh this cough — it will be the death of me yet ! You 
know I had my right hip put out last fall at the raising of 
Deacon Jones' saw mill ; its getting to be very troublesome 
just before we have a change of weather. Then I 've got 
the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I 'ra so crip- 
pled up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. 

6. What do you think that old white mare of ours did 
irhile I was out plowing last week ? Why, the weacked old 
critter, she kept a backing and backing, on till she back'd 
me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a piece of skin 
off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs,) 

7. But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, 
Doctor. You see it was washing-day — and my wife wanted 
me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood — you know 
we lost our help lately, and my wife has to wash and tend 
to every thing about the house herself. 

8. I knew it would n't be safe for me to go out — as it was 
a raining at the time — but I thought I 'd risk it any how. 
So I went out, pick'd up a tew chunks of stove-wood, and 
"5iras a coming up the steps in to the house, when my feet 
slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I 'd 
been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down 
the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and knock'd out 


three of my front toeth. I suflfered dreadfully on account 
of it, as you may suppose, and my face airft well enough yet 
to make me tit to be seen, specially by the women folks 
{Ooitffhsi.) Oh dear! But that aint all, Doctor,^! 've got 
fifteen corns on my toes — and I 'm afeard I 'm a going to 
have the yellow jaundice. (^Coughs.) 


1 You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen of 
the jury, that this is an action for a breach of promise of 
marriage, in which the damages are laid at fifteen hundred 
pounds. The plaintiff, gentlemen, is a widow — yes, gentle- 
men, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, some time before hi.s 
death, became the father, gentlemen, of a little boy. With 
this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, 
Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retire- 
ment and tranquillity of Goswcll street; and here she placed 
in her front parlor window a written placard, bearing this 
inscription : "Apartments, furnished, for a single gentleman. 
Inquire within." Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite 
sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of 
the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no 
fear — she had no distrust — all was confidence and reliance. 
''Mr. Bardell," said the widow, "was a man of honor, — 
Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, — Mr. Bardell was no 
deceiver, — Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman him- 
self; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assist- 
ince, for comfort and consolation ; — in single gentlemen I 
shall perpetually see some thing to remind me of what Mr. 
Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried 
affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings 
be let." 

2. Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse, 
(among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentle- 
men,) the lonely and desolate widow dried her t^ars, 
furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy :o her 
maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlor Wtndow 


Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the 
watch; the train was laid; the mine was preparing; the 
sapper and miner was at work! Before the bill had been 
in the parlor window three days — three days, gentlemen — 
a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward 
semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the 
door of Mrs. Bardcll's house. He inquired within ; he took 
the lodgings ; and on the very next day, he entered into 
possession of them. This man was Pickwick — Pickwick, 
the defendant. 

3. Of this man I will say little. The subject presents 
but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor 
are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contempla- 
tion of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villainy. 
I say systematic villainy, gentlemen ; and when I say sys- 
tematic villainy, let me tell the defendant, Pickwick, if he 
be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been 
more decent in him, more becoming, if he had stopped away. 
Let me tell him, further, that a counsel, in the discharge of 
his duty, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put 
down ; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other 
will recoil on the head of the attemptcr, be he plaintiflf, or 
be he defendant; be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or 
Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson. 

4. I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pick- 
wick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption 
or intermission, at Mrs. Bardcll's house. I shall show you 
that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on 
him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out 
his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, 
aired, and prepared it for wear when it came homo ; and, in 
ihort, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show 
you that on many occasions he gave half-pence, and on some 
occasions even sixpence, to her little boy. I shall prove to 
you that on one occasion, when he returned from the 
country, he distinctly and in terms offered her marriage ; 
previously, however, taking special care that there should 
be no witnesses to their solemn contract. And I am in a 
situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his 


own friends — most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen — most 
unwilling witnesses — that on that morning, he was dis- 
ojvered by thom holding the plaintiff* in his arms, and 
aoothing her agitation by his caressess and endearments. 

5. And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters 
have passed between these parties — letters that must be 
Tiewed with a cautious and suspicious eye — letters that were 
avidently intended, at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and 
delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall, 
l^ct me read the first: — " Garraway's, twelve o'clock. — Dear 
Mrs. B. : Chops and tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick." 
<Ientlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce! 
Vtnirs. Pickwick I Chops ! — gracious fathers I — and tomato 
sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and con- 
fiding female to be trifled away by such shallow artifices as 
these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself 
suspicious. " Dear Mrs. B. : I shall not be at home to- 
morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remark- 
able expression — " Do n't trouble yourself about the warm- 
ing-pan." The warming -jmn! Why, gentlemen, who does 
trouble himself about a warming-pan ? Why is Mrs. Bar- 
dell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this 
warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere 
cover for hidden fire — a mere substitute for some endearing 
word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of 
correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view 
to his contemplated desertion ? And what does this allusion 
to the slow coach mean? For aught I know it may be a 
reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquest onably 
been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this trans- 
action, but whoso speed will be now very unexpectedly 
accelerated, and whoso wheels, gentlemen, as he will find 
k bis cost, will very soon be greased by you. 

fi. But enough of this, gentlemen. It is diflScult to smile 
with on aching heart. My client's hope? and prospects are 
ruined ; and it is no figure of speech to say that her " occu- 
pation is gone " indeed. The bill is down ; but there is no 
tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and fepass: but 
tk'^rc is no invitation for thrm to inquire within or withouL 


All is gloom and silence in the house: even the voice of 
the child is hushed ; his infant sports are disregarded, when 
his mother weeps. But Pickwick, gentlemen — Pickwick, 
the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert 
of Goswell street — Pickwick, who has choked up the well, 
tnd thrown ashes on the sward — Pickwick, who comes before 
you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming- 
pan4 — Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effront- 
ery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made 1 
Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, is the only punish- 
ment with which you can visit him — the only recompense 
you can award to my client. And for those damages she 
now appeals to an enlightened, a high minded, a right- 
feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a 
contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen I 



1. Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, 
The second time entered the married relation: 
Xantippe Caloric accepted his baud, 

And tbey thought him the happiest man in the land. 

But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, 

When, one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said, 

*• I think, for a man of my standing in life, 

This house is too small, as I now have a wife: 

So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 

Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy. 

2. "Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, 
" I hate to hear every" thing vulgarly mifd ; 
Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, 
Say, our cow house, our barn yard, our pig pen." 
"By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please 
Of my houses, my lands, viy gardens, my trees." 
"Say Our" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. 

**1 won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age I" 

3. Oh, woman ! though only a part of man^s rib. 
If the story in Genesis do n't tell a fib. 


Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, 
You are certain to prove the best man of the twa 
la the following case this was certainly true ; 
For the lovely Xantippo just pulled off her shoo, 
And laying about her, all sides at random, 
The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." 

4. Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vwn, 
To ward off the blows which descended like rain, — 
Concluding that valor's best part was discretion — 
Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian : 

But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, 
Converted the siege into a blockade. 

5. At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate. 
He concluded 't was useless to strive against fate ; 
And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, 

Said, " My dear, may we come out from under our bed ?" 
*' Hah ! hah 1" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks, 
I perceive you agree to ray terms, by your looks: 
Now, Socrates, — hear me, — from this happy hour, 
If you '11 only obey me, I 'W never look sour." 
'T is said the next Sabbath, ere going to church. 
He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to search : 
Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, 
"My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?" 



Abei, McAdam — may his tribe increase — 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. 
And saw, within the gas-light of his room, 
A female spirit (dressed up a la Bloom- 
Er,) writing some thing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding drink had made McAdam bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest, dear?" The spirit raised u !. .i. 
And with a voice like that of cooing dove, 
Murmured, "The names of men whom women love." 
"And is mine one?" asked Abel. "No, sir-ee," 
i;,..,ri..,i ti... «j>irit. At">i ••..•"•.'■I with glee, 


Then coolly said, ** Sweet sprite, write me as one 
Who ne'er finds fault with what a woman 's done." 
The Bloomer wrote and vanished ; but the next night 
It came again with a great wakening light, 
And sliowcd the names by love of woman blessed; 
When, lo! McAdam's name led all the restl 


"Oi.D man, for whom diggest thou this graTef 

I asked as I walked along; 
For I saw in the heart of London streets 

A dark and busy throng. 
'T was a strange, wild deed, but a wilder wish 

Of the parted soul, to lie, 
'Mid the troubled numbers of living men 

Who would pass him idly by. 
So I said, " For whom diggest thou this grave. 

In the heart of London town ?" 
And the tleep-toned voice of the digj^or replied— 

•• We 're laying a gas-pipe down." 


1 Old Birch, who taught a village school, 
Wedded a maid of homespun habit ; 
He was as stubborn as a mule. 
And she was playful as a rabbit 

' 2. Poor Kate had scarce become a wife, 

Before her husband sought to make her 
The pink of country polished life. 
And prim and formal as l» Quaker. 

3 One day the tutor went abroad, 

And simple Kitty sadly missed him ; 
When he returned, behind her lord 
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him I 

4. The husband's anger rose ! — and red 
And white his face alternate grew I 
" Less freedom, ma'am !" Kate sighed and said, 
**0b, dear! I did n't know 'twas you I" 


AMD8ING. 419 


1. It having been announced to me, my young friends, 
thai you were about forming a fire-company, I have called 
you together to give you such directions as long experience 
in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communi- 
cate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like 
a pair of panthers. Kun any way, except the right way — 
for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. 
If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much 
the better ; you can then get a good view of the neighbor- 
hood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it im- 
mediately; but be sure you do n't jump into a bow window. 
Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night 
hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, 
and set them yelling, too. A brace of cats dragged up 
stairs by the tail would be a " powerful auxiliary." When 
you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert 
it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in 
the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down 
it; or, if you can 't do that, perhaps the best plan would 
be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don 't 
forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious 
effect in frij.'htcning oflf the fire. The louder the better, of 
course ; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater 
necessity for " doing it brown." 

2. Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good 
earnest, and make any man ''smoke" that interrupts you. 
If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut 
them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. 
Don 't forget to yell ! Should the stable be threatened, 
carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse — he *11 be 
alive and kicking ; and if his legs do n't do their duty, let 
tlicm pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs — let them save 
their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins 
to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps ; or, 
if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. 
Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story ; and, 
if tV'» '  •  -♦ '- *' > f^ -• '.♦ ♦! ' ■:- »-•••••.]- on the 


ur fate. Shoul 


J "even tenor ol its way, 

yoii had 


first fit' .1 si mil; 

ment" still pursue the 

better ascend to the Fcmnd story. Pitch out the pitchers, 

and tumble out \ ell all the tinit; ! 

3. If you find u uaoy aitea, niug it into the second storj 
window of the house across the way ; but let the kitten 
carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureaa 
drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; 
telling some body below to upset the slop-barrel and rain- 
water hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend 
to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, thb more 
pieces will Ito made. If any body objects, smash it over 
his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tonga 
dowp from the second story : the fall might break its legs, 
and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it strad- 
dle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile 
the bed-clothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crock- 
ery out of the window. By the time you will have attended 
to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or tbe 
building be burnt down. 1;. ase, your services will 

be no longer needed; and, ot euurse, you require no further 
directions, except at all times to keep up a yell. 


1. How difficult, alas! to please mankind I 

: the other every moment mutters: 
:s an eastern, that a western wind; 
A third, petition for a southern, utters. 
Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: 
IIow can Heaven suit all palates? — I don't know. 

2. Good Lamb, the curate, mueh a]»pr.ived, 
Indeed by all his flock beloved. 

Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain: 
The parson most devoutly prayed — 
The powers of prayer were soon displayed ; 

Immediately a torrent drenched the plain. 

3. It chanced that the church warden, Rohin Jay, 
Had of his meadow not yet saved the hay: 


Thus was his hay to health quite past restoriug. 
It happened too that Robin was from home ; 
But when he heard the story, in a foam 

lie sought the parson, like a lion roaring. 

I "Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing? 
A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing 1 

What! pray for rain before I saved my hay! 
Oh ! you *re a cruel and ungrateful man I 
I that forever help you all I can ; 

Ask you tor dine with me and Mistress Jay 
Whenever we have some thinj; on the spit, 
Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit; 

5. *' Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, 
Whose bones you are so fond of picking ; 

And often too a keg of brandy ! 
You that were welcome to a treat, 
To smoke and chat, and drink and eat; 

Making my house so very handy ! 

6. "You, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! 
Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick. 
What ! bring the flood of Noah from the skies, 
With my fine field of hay before your feyes ! 

A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware. — 
Ilanj; me, but I had stopped your pretty prayer!" 
"Dear Mister Jay?" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas! 
I never thought upon your field of grass." 

7. " Oh ! parson, you 're a fool, one might suppose — 
Was not the field just underneath your nose? 
This is a very pretty losing job !" — 

" Sir," quoth the curate, " know that Harry Cobb, 
Your brother warden, joined to have the prayer." — 
"Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb wsvs only sport: 
What doth Cobb own that any rain can hurt?" 
Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare. 

b The follow owns, aa far as I can larn, 
A few old houses only, and a barn; 
As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to himt 
Nut Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim. 
" Hcsidcs — why could you not for drizzle pray? 
Why force ' ' 


Would I have played with your hay siuli a freak? 
No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week." 

9. " Dear Mister Jay, I do protest, 
I acted solely for the best; 

I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. 
Your anger for this once restr:iiii. 
I'll never bring a drop again 
Till you and ".»> ♦>"' ••■••:' i " 



1 . " O.vcB on a time," as ancient tales declare, 

There lived a farmer in a quiet dell 
In Massachusetts, but exactly where, 

Or when, is really more than I can tell — 
Except that, quite above the public bounty, 
lie lived within his moans and Bristol county. 

2. By patient labor and unceasing care. 

He earned, and so enjoyed, his daily bread; 
Contented always with his frugal fare. 

Ambition to be rich ne'er vexed his head: 
And thus unknown to envy, want, or wealth, 
lie flourished long in comfort, peace and health. 

3. The gentle partner of his humble lot. 

The joy and jewel of his wedded life. 
Discharged the duties of his peaceful cot. 

Like a true woman and a faithful wife ; 
Her mind improved by thought and useful reading, 
Kind words and gentle manners showed her breeding. 

4. Grown old at last, the farmer called his son. 

The youngest, (and the favorite I suppose,) 
And said — "I long have thought, my darling John, 

'T is time to bring my labors to a close ; 
So now to toil I mean to bid adieu, 
And deed, my son, the homestead farm to you." 

5. The boy embraced the boon with vast delight, 

And promised while their precious lives remained. 
He M till and tend the farm from morn till night. 
And see his parents handsomely maintained; 


Qod help him, he would never fail to love, nor 
Do aught to grieve his generous old gov'iior ! 

5 The farmer said — " Well, let us now proceed, 
(You know tliere 's always danger in delay,) 
And get 'Squire Robinson to write the deed; 

Come — where 's my staff 7 — we '11 soon be on the way." 
But John replied, with tender, filial care, 
" You 're old and weak — I '11 catch ^he Dapple Mare." 

7. The mare was saddled, and the old man got on. 

The boy on foot trudged cheerfully along, 
The while, to cheer his sire, the duteous son 

Beguiled the weary way with talk and song. 
Arrived at length, they found the 'Squire at home, 
And quickly told him wherefore they had come. 

8. The deed was writ in proper form of law. 

With many a "foresaid," "therefore," and "the 
And made throughout without mistake or flaw. 

To show that John had now a legal claim 
To all his father's laud— conveyed, given, sold, 
Quit-claimed, et cetera — to have and hold, 

9. Their business done, they left the lawyer's door, 

Happier, perhaps tlian when they eutered there ; 
And started off as they had done before — 

The son on foot, the father on the mara 
But ere the twain a single mile had gone, 
A brilliant thought occurred to Master John. 

10. Alas for truili! — alas for filial duty! — 

Alas that Satan in the shape of pride, 
(Ilis most bewitching form save that of beauty,) 

Whispered the lad — " My boy, you ought to ride !' 
"Get off I" exclaimed the younker — "'t is n't fair 
That you should always ride the Dapple Mare \" 

1 1 . The son was lusty, and the sire was old, 

And 80, with many an oath and many a frown. 
The hapless farmer did as he was told. 

The man got off the steed, the boy got on« 
And rode away as fast as she could trot, 
And left his sire to trudge it home on footl 


12. That night, whUo seated round the kitchen fire 
The household sat, cheerful as if no word 
Or deed, provoked the injured father's ire, 

Or aught to make him sad had e'er occurred— 
Thus spoke he to hi« son — "We quite forgot, 
I think, t' include that little turnip lot!" 

13 ' I 'm very sure my son, it would n't hurt it," 
Calmly observed the meditative sire, 
"To take the deed, my lad, and just insert it:" 

Here the old man inserts it — in the fire! 
Then cries aloud witli most triumphant air, 
"Who now, my son, shall ride the Dapple Mare?" 



1. " Ah, here it is! I 'm famous now; 
An author and a poet. 

It really is in print. Hurrah I 
How proud I '11 be to show it. 
And gentle Anna! what a thrill 
Will animate her breast, 
To read these ardent lines, and know 
To whom they are addressed. 

2. " Why, bless my soul ! here 's some thing wrong; 
What can the paper mean, 

By talking of the * graceful brook,' 

That ^ganders o'er the green?' 

And here 's a < instead of r, 

Which makes it 'tippling rill,' 

We '11 seek the * shad ' instead of * shade,' 

And * hell ' instead of ' hill.' 

3. "*Thy looks so'— what?— I recollect, 
'T was ' sweet,' and then 't was ' kind ;' 
And now, to think, — the stupid fool — 
For 'bland' has priqted 'blind,' 

Was ever such provoking work? 
('T is curious, by the by. 
That any thing is rendered blind 
By giving it an i.) 


4. " The color of the * ro8e ' is * nose,' 
'Affection' is •affliction.' 
(I wonder if the likeness holds 
In fact as well as fiction?) 
•Th?u art a friend.' The r is gone; 
"Whoever would have deemed 
That such a trifiing thing could change 
A friend into a fiend. 

t. " ' Thou art the same,' is rendered ' lame,* 
It really is too bad I 
And here because an t is out 
My lovely * maid ' is mad. 
They drove her blind by poking in 
An t — a process new — 
And now they 've gouged it out again, 
And made her crazy, too. 

6. "I'll read no more. What shall I io? 
I '11 never dare to send it 

The paper's scattered far and wide, 

'T is now too late to mend it. 

Oh, fume ! thou cheat of human life, 

Why did I ever write? 

I wish my poem had been burnt. 

Before it saw the light. 

7. " Was ever such a horrid hash, 
In poetry or prose? 

I 've said she was a ' fiend !' and praised 

The color of her * nose.' 

I wish I had the printer here 

Alx)ut a half a minute, 

I 'd bang him to his heart's content. 

And with an A begin it." 


A OLiriR man waa Dr. Digg, 

Misfortunes well he bore ; 

lie never lost his patience till 

IIo had no patients more ; 

>t. ;:r, 


And though his practice once was large, 

It did not swell his gains, 
The pains he labored for were but 

The labor for his pains. 

2. Though ** art is long/' his cash got shori. 

And well might Qalen dread it, 
For who will trust a nanie unknown 

When merit gets no credit? 
To marry seemed the only way 

To ease his mind of trouble ; 
Misfortunes never singly come, 

And misery made them double. 

3. He had a patient, rich and fair, 

That hearts by scores was breaking, 
And as he once had felt her wrist, 

lie thought her hand of taking ; 
But what the law makes strangers do 

Did strike his comprehension. 
Who live in these United States, 

Do first declare intention. 

4. And so he called — his beating heart 

With anxious fears was swelling — 
And half in habit took her band, 

And on her tongue was dwelling : 
But thrice, though he es;»ayed to speak, 

lie stopped, and stuck, and blundered, 
For say what mortal could be cool. 

Whose pulse was 'most a hundred? 

5. "Madame," at last he faltered out— 
His love had grown courageous — 
" I have discerned a new complaint. 

I hope to prove contagious: 
And when the symptoms I relate, 

And show its diagnosis. 
All, let me hope from those dear lips. 
Some favorable prognosis. 

6. "This done," he cries, "let's tie those ties 
Which none but death can sever. 
Since * like cures like,' I do infer 
That love cures love forever." 

AMUSING.. 42? 

lie paused — she blushed, however strange 

It seems on first perusal, 
Although there was no promise made. 

She gave him a refusal. 

"I can not marry one who lives 

By other folks' distresses — 
The man I marry 1 must love, 

Not fear his fond caresses ; 
For who, whatever be their sex, 

However strange the case is, 
Would like to have a doctor's bill 

Stuck up into their faces ? " 

Perhaps you think, 'twixt love and rage, 

lie took some deadly potion, 
Or with his lancet breathed a vein 

To ease his pulse's motion. 
To guess the vent of his despair, 

The wisest one might miss it ; 
He reached his office — then and there. 

lie charged her for the visit ! 


I DREAMED a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
And as fast as I dreamed it was coined into numbers — 
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter, 
I 'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter. 
It seemed that a law had been recently made 
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ; 
And in order to make them all willing to marry. 
The tax was as largo as a man could well carry. 
The bachelors grumbled, and said 't were no use, 
'T wiw horrid injustice and shameful abuse; 
And declared, that to save their own heart's blood from spilTlni^ 
Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling. 
But the rulers determined their course to pursue, 
So they set the old bachelors up at vendue ; 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell and his trumpet to blow ; 


And t<^ ( :ill out to all he mip;ht meet in the way, 

" IIo ! forty old bachelors sold here to-day ! " 

And presently all the old maids in the town, 

r 1 'i one in her very best bonnet and gown, 

1 r i;ii thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale. 

Of every description all flocked to the sale. 

The auctioneer then in his labors began, 

And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 

•*IIow much for a bachelor — who wants ' ^" 

lu a twink every maiden responded, " 1 

In short, at a hugely extravagant price. 

The bachelors all were sold off in a trice ; 

And forty old maidens, some younger, some older. 

Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 

2. — A RECIPE. 
" Just take enough of good Scotch snuff," 

Said the panion to his hearer; 
"You 'V. '. iwake, and grace partake, 

And : ith come nearer." 

Said MiijLer Smith, " Go now forthwith, 

My dear good parson Ilermon, 
And take enough of that same snuff 

And put it in your sermon V 


1 Now the laugh shakes the hall, and the ruddy wine flows ; 
Who, who is so merry and gay ? 
Lemona is happy, for little she knows 
Of the monster so grim, that lay hushed in repose. 
Expecting his evening prey. 

2. While the music played sweet, and, with tripping so light, 

Bruno danced through the maze of the hall ; 
Lemona retired, and her maidens in white, 
Led her up to her chamber, and bid her good night. 

Then went down again to the hall. 

3. The monster of blood now extended his claws, 

And from under the bed did he creep ; 
With blood all besmeared, he now stretched out his paws ; 
With blood all besmeared, he now strotrhod out his jaws 

To feed on the angel asleop. 


1 lis Heized on a vein, and gave such a bite, 
And he gave, with hia fauga, such a tu«; — 
She shrieked ! Bruno ran up the stairs in a fright; 
The guests followed after, when brought to the light, 
" Mercy on us I " they cried, " what a bug ! " 

4. — PARODY. 
J. Oh, ever thus since childhood's hour, 
We 've seen our fondest hopes decay ; 
We never raised a calf, or cow, or 
Hen that laid an egg a day. 
But it was "marked" and took away. 

2. We never raised a sucking pig, 
To glad us with its sunny eye, 
But when 't was grown up fat and big. 
And fit to roast, or broil, or fry — 
We could not find it in the sty. 


1 I HAD a hat — it was not all a hat — 
Part of the brim was gone — yet still I wore 
It on, and people wondered, as I passed; 
Some turned to gaze — others, just cast an eye, 
And soon withdrew it, as 't were in contempt. 
But still, my hat, although so fashiouless. 
In complement extern, had that within. 
Surpassing show — my head continued warm. 
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all 
The want (as has been said) of shading brim. 

2. A change came o'er the color of my hat 
That which was black grew brown, and then men stared 
With both their eyes, (they stared with one before ;) 
The wonder now was twofold — and it seemed 
Strange, that things so t(jrn, and old, should still 
Be worn, by one who might — but let that passl 
I had my reasons, which might be revealed. 
But for some counter reasons far more strong. 
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on. 
tireen Kpring and flowery summer, autumn brown, 


And frosty winter came, — and went, and come. — 

And still, through all the seasons of two years, 

In park, in city, yea, in routs and balls, 

The hat was worn, and borne. Then folks grew wild 

With curiosity — and whispers rose. 

And questions passed about — how one so trim 

In coats, boots, pumps, gloTcs, trowsers, could ensconce 

His caput in a covering so vile. 

3. A change came o'er the nature of my hat. 
Grease-spots appeared; but still, in silence, on 
I wore it; and then family and friends 
Glared madly at each other. There was one. 
Who said — but hold I no matter what was said, 
A time may come when I — away, away — 
Not till the season 's ripe, can I reveal 
Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds; 
Till then, the world shall not pluck out the heart 
Of this my mystery. When I will — I will ! 

The hat was greasy now, and old, and torn — 
But torn, old, greasy, still I wore it on. 

4. A change came o'er the business of this hai 
^ Women, and men, and children scowled on me ; 

My company was shunned — I was alone — 
None would associate with such a hat — 
Friendship itself proved faithless, for a hat. 
She that I loved, within whose gentle breast 
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death : 
Love's fires went out, extinguished by a hat. 
Of those that knew me best, some turned aside, 
And scudded down dark lanes — one man did place 
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered — 
Others, in horrid mockery, laughed outright ; 
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray. 
Fixing their swart glai'C on my ragged hat. 
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked. 
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lover, dogs — 
One thought pervaded all — it was, my hat. 

5. A change — it was the last — came o'er this hat 
For lo I at length, the circling months went round, . 
The period was accomplished, and one day 

This tattered, brown, old greasy coverture, 
(Time had endeared its vileness,) was transferred 

AMUSING. '131 

To the possession of a wandering son 

Of Israel's fated race, and friends once more 

Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze: 

Once more I went my way along, along, 

And plucked no wondering gaze ; the hand of scorn. 

With its annoying finger, men and dogs. 

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlUw; 

And last, not least, of rescued blessings-;— love, 

Love smiled on me again, when I assumed 

A brand-new beaver of the Andre mold ; 

And then the laugh was mine, for then came out 

The secret of this strangeness— *t was a beil 


L Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, 
One took the other briskly by the hand; 
" Hark ye," said he, " 't is an odd story this. 
About the crows I" — " I do n't know what it is," 
Replied his friend. " No ! I 'm surprised at that ; 
Where I come from it is the common chat: 
But you shall hear : an odd affair indeed 1 
And that it happened, they are all agreed ; 
Not to dctmn you from a thing so strange, 
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, 
This week, in short, as all the alley knows, 
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows " 

2. " Impossible 1" — " Nay, but it 's really true, 
I had it from good hands, and so may you." 
*' From whose, I pray ?" So, having named the man, 
Straight to inquire, his curious comrade ran. 
" Sir, did you tell ?" — relating the affair — 
"Yes, sir, I did ; and if it 's worth your care. 
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me ; 
But, by tlie by, 't was two black crows, not three." 

M. Resolved to trace so wondrous an event. 
Whip to the third, the virtuoso went 
" Sir," — and-so-forth — " Why, yes ; the thing 'a a f»o< 
Though, in regard to number, not exact; 
It was not two black crows, 't was only one; 
The truth of that you may depend upon. 


The j^entl''i!i;\n hvn-'-lf tol'l mo the case. 
'^V Why — in «uch a place." 

' \ • s, and, having found him out — 

> ; as to resolve a doubt." 

Th' informant, he referred, 

And ^ ,^;_^- L.. .vuow if true, what he ha-l 1. mv.V 
"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" 
"TV : ' liow people propagate a lie! 

have been thrown up, tlircc, i one, 

Ai- . find, at last, all comes to none! 

Di'i iu>t!jin;; of a crow at all?" 

> I might, now I recall 
And pray, sir, what waa't?" 
"Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, 
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, 
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow " 


1. The chimney soot was falling fast, 
As through the streets and alleys passed 
A man who sang, with noise and din, 
This word of singular meanin, 

Char-co-o-al 1 

2 11  " as grim, his nose upturned, 

A cry ground he spurned — 

And like a trumpet sound was heard. 
The accents of that awful word, 

Char-co-o-al 1 

3. In muddy streets he did descry 

The "moire antiques" held high and dry. 
With feet and ankles shown too well. 
And from his lips escaped a yell ! — 

Char-co-o-al ! 

4. " Do n't go there 1" was the warning sound ; 
The pipes have all burst underground, 

The raging torrent 's deep and wide ;" 
But loud his trumpet voice replied, 

Char-co-o-al 1 


5. •' Oh stop I" good Biddy cried, "and lavo 
A brimful peck upon tliis pave." 

A smile his inky face came o'er, 
And on he went with louder roar, 

Char-co-o-al I 

6. " Beware of Main street crossing deep, 
Away from Walnut gutter keep 1" 
This was the sweeper's only greet, 

A voice replied far up the street, 

Char-co-o-al 1 

7. At set of sun, as homeward went, 
The joyous men of cent per cent, 
Counting the dollars in their till, 

A voice was heard, both loud and shrill, 

Char-co-o-al I 

8. A man upon the watchman's round, 
Half-steeped in mud and ice was found. 
Shouting with voice, though not so strong. 
That awful word which heads my song, 

Char-co-o-al I 

9. There in the gas-light, dim and gray, 
Dreaming unconsciously he lay. 

And from his nose, turned up still more, 
Came sounding like a thrilling snore — 
Char-co-o-al I 


L Out of the tavern I Ve just stepped to-night — 
Street! you are caught in a very bad plight; 
Right hand and left hand are both out of place-> 
Street, yea are drunk ; 't is a very dear caae. 

2. Moon 1 't is a very queer figure you out — 
One eye is staring while t' other is shut- 
Tipsy, I tee, and you 're greatly to blame ; 
Old as yoa are,.'t is a horrible shame. 

i. Then the street lamps — what a scandalous sight! 
None of them soberly standing upright: 
KiDD— 37 


Rocking and staggering — why, on my word. 
Each of those lamps is as drunk as a lord. 

4 All is confusion ! now is n'fe it odd 7 
^jthing is sober that I see abroad; 
Sure it were rash with this crow to remain; 
Better go into the tavern again. 


*' Good bordig, Biss Biller." 

" Good bordig, Bister Sbith." 

" How 's your Ba this bordig ? " 

" I do d't thig she 'a buch better thb bordig. Bister Sbith. 
I do d't at all." 

" Have you bade up your bides yet what is the battel 
with her ? 

" Do, dot cgsactly ; Dr. Buggids, our ftibily physiciad, 
thicks it's the bcascls. Bisses Jodes, who has it id her 
fabily, says it 's the sball-pox, but I thick it's dothig bore 
thad an eruptiod of the skid fro}> «'^»'" *no buch beat, or 
Bobthig else." 

"Has she taked eddy bedicid?" 

" Dot buch." 

"Have you tried bribstode add bolasses?" 

" Do. Is it codsidered good ?" 

"Ad idfallible rebedy — cures everythig. Biss Browd's 
little dog was quite udwell dight before last — had a ruddig 
at the dose add subthig like the bups ; before puttig it to 
bed she gave it half a wide-glass of the bixture, add last 
dight at tea it was able to seat itself in the case-basket, 
add help itself frob the sugar-bowl. It works Kke bagic, 
just like bagic." 

** Astodishig ! I shall adbidister the rebedy tc Ba ibbcdi- 

" Do so, with by copplibets." 

" I will. Good bordig, Bister Sbith." 

" Good bordig, Biss Biller." 



1. f WILL tell you, sir, by the way of private and uiidei 
seal, I ara a gentleman, and live here obscure and to mystlf; 
but were I known to his majesty and the lords, observe me, 
I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for ihc 
public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire 
lives of his subjects, in general, but to save the one-half, 
nay, three parts of yearly charge in holding war, and 
against what enemy soever. 

5. And how would I do it, think you ? Why thus, sir. 
I would select nineteen more to myself; gentlemen they 
should be, of a good spirit, strong and able constitution ; 1 
would choose them by an instinct, a character that I have : 
and I would teach these nineteen the special rules, as your 
Punto, your Reverse, your Stoccato, your Imbrocato, your 
Passado, your Montanto, till they could all play very near, 
or altogether, as well as myself. This done, say the enemy 
were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into the 
field the tenth of March or thereabout; and we would 
challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not in their 
honor refuse us ! 

3. Well, we would kill them ; challenge twenty more, kill 
them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill f hem, too : 
and thus would we kill, every man his twenty a day, that 's 
twenty score; twenty score, that's two hundred; two hun- 
dred a day, five days a thousand : forty thousand, — forty 
times five, five times forty, — two hundred days kills them 
all up by computation. And this I will venture my poor 
gentleman-like carcass to perform (provided there be no 
treason practiced upon us,) by discreet manhood, that is, 
civilly, by the sword, ben Jonson. 


1. Mr. Spkaker: Sir, — Our fellow-citizen, Mr. Silaa 
HiggiDS, who was lately a member of this branch of the 
Fiegislaturo, is dead, and he died yesterday in the forenoon 


lie had the brown -croaters, (bronchitis was meant, y and was 
an uncommon individual. His character was good up to 
the time of hia death, and he never lost his woice. He was 
fifty-six year old, and was taken sick before he died at his 
boarding house, where board can be had at a dollar and 
seventy-five cents a week, washing and lights included. 
He was an ingeuM creetur^ and, in the early part of his life, 
had a father and mother. 

2. He was an officer in our State militia since the last 
war, and was brave and polite ; and his uncle, Timothy 
Higgins, belonged to the Revolutionary war, and was com- 
missioned as lieutenant by General Washington, first Presi- 
dent and commander-in-chief of the army and navy of the 
United States, who died at Mount Vernon, deeply lamented 
by a large circle of friends, on the 14th of December, 1799, 
or thereabout, and was buried soon after his death, with 
military honors, and several guns were bu'st in firing 

3. Sir ! Mr. Speaker : General Washington presided over 
tue great continental Sanhedrim and political meeting that 
formed our constitution ; and he was, indeed, a first-rate 
good man. He was first in war, first in peace, and first in 
the hearts of his countrymen ; and, though he was in favor 
of the United States Bank, he was a friend of edication ; 
and from what he said in his farewell address, I have no 
doubt he would have voted for the tariflF of 1846, if he had 
been alive, and had n't ha' died beforehand. His death was 
considered, at the time, as rather premature, on account of 
lis being brought on by a very hard cold. 

4. Now, Mr. Speaker, such being the character of Gen- 
eral Washington, I motion that we wear crape around the 
left arm of this Legislature, and adjourn until to-morrow 
morning, as an emblem of our respects for the memory of 
S. Higgins who is dead, and died of the brown -creaters 
iresterday in the forenoon ! 



" Ei.DKU PxiFKf.KS. let mc crive you another piece o' tli« 

'* I 'ui oijicegea to you, 3ir. Maguire; you probably recol- 
lect that I remarked in my discourse this morning, that 
indivic'uals were too prone to indulge in an excessive indul- 
gence in creature comforts on thanksgiving occasions. In 
view of the lamentable fact that the sin of gormandizing is 
carried to a sinful excess on this day, I, as a preacher of 
the Gospel, deem it my duty to be unusually abstemious on 
such oi^casions: nevertheless, considering the peculiar cir- 
cumstances under which I am placed this day, I think I 
Si.A waive objections and take another small portion of the 

" That's right, elder — what part will you take now?" 

" Well, I 'm not particular ; a small quantity of the breast, 
with a part of a leg and some of the stuffing, will be quite 

*' Pass the cranberries to Klder Sniffles, Jeff — elder, help 
yourself; wife, give the elder some more o' the turnip sass 
and potater." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Maguire. I am an advocate for a 
vegetable diet — and have always maintained that it is more 
congenial to individuals of sedentary habits and intellectual 
pursuits like myself, than animal food." 

*' Jeff, my son, pass the bread. Sister Bedott, send your 
plate for some more o' the turkey." 

" No, I 'm obleegcd to ye — I 've had' 8ufl5cient." 

" Jeff, cut the chicken pie." 

" Sure enough — I almost forgot that I was to carve tho 
pie — Aunt Silly, you Ml take a piece of it, won't you?" 

** Well, I do n't care if I dew take a little mite on t. 
I 'm a great favorytc o' chicken pie — always thought t wat 
a delightful beverage — do n't you, Elder Sniffles?" 

" A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott — very indeed ; chickeo 
pie is truly a very desirable article of food." 

'' Allow nie to help you to some of it, elder." 

" Tlir my young friend; as I before remarked, 1 


am entirely opposed to ad immoderate indulgence of th« 
appetite at all times, but particularly on thanksgiving occa- 
sions — and am myself always somewhat abstemious. How- 
ever, I consider it my duty at the present time to depart, 
to some extent, from the usual simplicity of my diet. I 
will, therefore, comply with your request, and partake of 
the chicken pie." 

" Take some more o' the cranberry sass, elder : cranber- 
ries is hulsome." 

" A very just remark, Mrs. .Ma<:uirc — they are so; never- 
theless, I maintain that we should not indulge too freely in 
even the most wholesome of creature comforts; however, 
since you dc^*-'" i* T will take a small port*' v '"re of the 

" Husband, dew pass that pickled tongue — it hain't been 
touched — take some on *t, £ldcr Sniffles." 

'* I *m obliged to you, Mrs. Maguire — but I confess I am 
somewhat fearful of taking articles of that description upon 
my stomach, as they create a degree of acidity which is 
incompatible with digestion. Is it not so, my young friend? 
You are undoubtedly prepared to decide, as you are, I be- 
lieve, pursuing the study of the medical science." 

" I think you are altogether mistaken. Elder Sniffles. We 
should always take a due proportion of acid with our food, 
in order to preserve the equilibrium of the internal economy, 
and produce that degree of eflfervescence which is necessary 
to a healthy secretion." 

" Exactly. Your view of the subject is one which never 
struck me before ; k seems a very just one. I will partake 
of the pickled tongue in consideration of your remarks." 

" Take a slice on 't. Sister Bedott. Y"ou seem to need 
some tongue to-day — you 're oncommon still." 

" What a musical man you be, brother Magwire ! but \i 
strikes me when an indiwiddiwal has an opportunity o* 
hearin' iutellectible conversation they 'd better keep still 
ind improve it. Ain 't it so. Elder Sniffles ? " 

" A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott ; and one which has 
often occurred to my own mind." 

" Take some more of the chicken pie, Elder Sniffles." 


" Excuse me, my young friend ; I will take nothing 

" What I you du n't mean tu ^ive it up yet, I hope, elder." 
" Indeed, Mr. Maguire, I assure you I would rather not 
lake any thing more, for as I before remarked, I am de- 
cidedly opposed to excessive eating upon this day." 

" Well, then, we '11 have the pies and puddins. Jeflf, my 
ijn, fly round and help your mar change the plates. I '11 
take the puddin, Melissy — you may tend to the pie^. Jeff, 
Bet on the cider. So here 's a plum-puddin' — it looks nice 
— I guess you 've had good-luck to-day, wife. Sister Be- 
dott, you '11 have some on 't?" 

" No ; I 'm obleeged to ye. I 've got- ruther of a head- 
ache to-day, and plum puddin's rich. I guess I '11 take a 
small piece o' the punkin pie." 

"Elder Sniffles, you '11 be helped to some on 't of course?" 
" Indeed, Mr. Maguire, the practice of indulging in arti- 
cles of this description after eating meat is esteemed highly 
pernicious, and I inwardly protest against it; furthermore, 
as Mrs. Bedott has very justly remarked, plum pudding is 
rich — however, considering the peculiar circumstances of 
the occasion, I will for once overstep the boundaries which 
I have prescribed for myself" 

"Am I to understand that you '11 have some, or not?" 
" I will partake, in consideration of time and place." 
" Gracious ! wife, this is as good puddin' as I ever eat." 
" Elder Sniffles, will you take some o' the pie — here is a 
mince pic and punkin pie." 

" I will take a small portion of the pumpkin pie if you 
please, Mrs. Maguire, as I consider it highly nutritious ; 
but, as regards the mince pie, it is an article of food which 
I deem excessively deleterious to the constitution, inasmuch 
AS it is composed of so great a variety of ingrcdiei.ts. I 
esteem it exceedingly difficult of digestion. Is it nut so, 
my young friend?" 

" By no means, elder ; quite the contrary — and the renson 
is obvious. Observe, elder — it is cut into the most minute 
particles ; hence it naturally follows, that being, as it were, 
I ompletely calcined before it enters the system — it leaves. s« 


to spoak, DO labor to be performed by the digestive organs, 
and it is disposed of without the slightest difficulty." 

*' Ah, indeed ! your reasoning is quite new to me — yet 1 
confess it to be most satisfactory and lucid. In considera- 
tion of its facility of digestion I will purtake also of the 
mince pie." 

* Wife, fill the elder a glass o' cider." 

" Desist I Mrs. Maguire, desist, I entreat you I I invari- 
«bly set my face like a flint against the use of all intoxi- 
cating liquors as a beverage." 

" Gracious ! you do n't mean to call new cider an intoxi- 
catin' liquor, I hope? Why, man alive, it's jest made — 
hain't begun to work." 

" Nevertheless, I believe it to be exceedingly insalubrious, 
and detrimental to the system. Is not that its nature, my 
young friend?" 

" Far from it, elder — far from it. Reflect a moment and 
you will readily perceive, that being the pure juice of the 
apple — wholly free from all alcoholic mixture — it possesses 
all the nutritive properties of the fruit, with the advantage 
of being in a more condensed form, which at once renders 
it much more agreeable, and facilitates assimilation." 

"Very reasonable — very reasonable indeed. Mrs. Ma- 
guire, you may fill my glass." 

*' Take another slice o' the puddin', Elder Sniffles." 

"No more, I 'm obliged to you, Mr. Maguire." 

" Well, won't you be helped to some more o' the pie?" 

" No more, I thank you. Mr. Maguire." 

*' But you '11 take another glass o' cider, won't you?" 

"In consideration of the nutritious properties of new 
cider, which your son has abundantly shown to exist, I will 
permit you to replenish my glass." 

" So you won't take nothin' more, elder?" 

" Nothing more, my friends — nothing more whatsoever — 
for as I have several times remarked during the repast, I 
tm an individual of exceedingly abstemious habits — endea- 
voring to enforce by example that which I so strenuously 
enjoin by precept from the pulpit, to wit — temperance iu 
All things." 

AMUSING. 4-11 


1. 0, , when twilight holy 

Eiiiili hor mantle castcth o'er, 
Cometh one who wulketh slowly, 

Slowly past my open door — 
Walketh by, all sad and lonely. 

Some times walks he back again ; 
No companion hath he — only 

AVith him his cigar and cane: 
Slowly walking, to none talking, 

Goes he forth and back again ; 
Sad and lonely, with him only 

Always that cigar and cane! 

2. Never, while the sunbeams garish 

Pour upou the earth their light, 
lias that form, a little sparish, 

Have those whiskers met my sight ; 
But when sounds of insects humming, 

Hymn the praise of eve's fair star. 
And Miss Jones begins that strumrainft 

After tea, on her guitar, — 
Then I spy him, far off coming. 

By the light of his cigar 1 
But whence comes he, or where goeth, 

Walking fast and back again. 
None can tell me — no one knoweth 

Whose are that cigar and cane I 

8. To the right or left ne'er looking. 

Onward as he slowly goes, 
Interruption never brooking, 

After his cigar and nose — 
No acquaintance ever seeking, 

'Mid the crowds that he may meet — 
No one knowing — to none speaking. 

As he walks along the street — 
Ever seeming like one dreaming 

O'er the flight of vanished years — 
Sadly pondering— on still wandering- 
Looking, as he disappears, 
In the smoke he cast behind him, 

Like the ghost of by-gone years! 


4. Silent, sad, and meditative, 

Like a man who, walking, dreamt— 
Or a sage, all contemplative, 

Or like one in love, he seems I 
Is he single still ?— or may be, 

DtX)med awhile thus far to roam, 
Thinks he of a wife and baby, 

He was forced to leave at home? 
Something looks he like a stray bee. 

To his hive but newly come! 
Much I fear though ('t would appear so, 

If the truth were fairly known, 
That his bceship we should reslii|i — 

That he 's nothing but a drone ; 
Idly stalking — smoking, walking. 

With cigar and cane alone! 


1. May it Please the Court — Gentlemen of the Jury — 
Vou sit in that box as the great reservoir of Roman liberty, 
Spartan fame, and Grecian polytheism. You are to swing 
the great flail of justice and electricity over this immense 
community, in hydraulic majesty, and conjugal superfluity. 
You are the great triumplial arch on which evaporates the 
even scales of justice and numerical computation. You are 
to ascend the deep arcana of nature, and dispose of my 
client with equiponderating concatenation, in reference to 
his future velocity and reverberating momentum, 

2. Such is your sedative and stimulating character. My 
client is only a man of domestic eccentricity and matrimo- 
nial configuration, not permitted, as you are, gentlemen, to 
walk in the primeval and lowest vales of society, but he has 
to endure the red hot sun of the universe, on the bights 
of nobility and feudal eminence. He has a beautiful wife 
of horticultural propensities, that henpecks the remainder 
of his days with soothing and bewitching verbosity, that 
makes his pandemonium as cool as Tartarus. 

3. He has a family of domestic childr n, that gather 


around the fireplace of his peaceful homicide in tumulti- 
tudinous consanguinity, and cry with screaming and 
rebounding pertinacity for bread, butter, and molasses. 
Such is the glowing and overwhelming character and defea- 
sance of my Client, who stands convicted before this court 
of oyer, and terminer, and lex non scriptaj by the persecuting 
petifogger of this court, who is as much exterior to me as 
1 am to the judge, and you, gentlemen of the jury. 

4. This Borax of the law here, has brought witnesses into 
this court, who swear that my client stole a firkin of butter. 
Now, I say, every one of them swore to a lie, and the truth 
is concentrated within them. But if it is so, I justify the 
act on the ground that the butter was necessary for a public 
good, to tune his family into harmonious discord. But I 
take other mountainous and absquatulated grounds on this 
trial, and move a quash be laid upon this indictment. 

5. Now, I will prove this by a learned expectoration of 
the principle of the law. Now butter is made of grass, and, 
it is laid down by St. Peter Pindar, in his principle of sub- 
terraneous law, that grass is couchant and levant, which in 
our obicular tongue, means that grass is of a mild and free 
nature; consequently, my client had a right to grass and 
butter both. 

6. To prove my second great principle, " let f\icts be sub- 
mitted to a candid world." Now butter is grease, and 
Greece is a foreign country, situated in the emaciated regions 
of Liberia and California; consequently, my client can not 
be tried in this horizon, and is out of the benediction of 
this court. I will now bring forward the ultimatum respon- 
dentia, and cap the great climax of logic, by quoting an 
inconceivable principle of law, as laid down in Latin, by 
Pothier, Iludibras, Blackstone, Hannibal, and Sangrado. 
It is thus : Ilcec hoc morus multicaulis, a mensa at thoro, ruta 
haga eentum. Which means, in English, that ninety-nine 
men are guilty, where one is innocent. 

7. Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first; 
then you come to my client, who is innocent, and acquitted 
according to law. If these great principles shall be duly 
dcprr • ■• ' in this court, then tho txrcnf north pole of lib- 


en lias stood so many years in pneumatic tallncsa, 

kI rei.iiMic:!!! regions of commerce and agriculture, 

tlie Spanish requisition, the pirates 
01 the li} pel bureau heas, and the marauders of the Aurora 
Bolivar! I5ut, jrcntlcmcn of the jury, if you convict my 
client, his chiUlrcii will be doomed to pine away in a statfl 
o\' liopcless matrimony ; and his beautiful wife will stand 
Iwiif iiid delighted, like a dried up mullen-stalk in a Hhecp- 
pu L. B. P.\ 

ccxi . «m:lor. 

i  he Common Pleas, 

\> (K) was csieeraed a mighty wit, 

Upon the strength of a chance hit 
Amid a thousand flippancies, 
And his occasional bad jokes 

In bullying, bantering, browbeating, 

Ilidiculing, and maltreating 
Women, or other timid folks, 

In ft 1"^" .'..w» r.w,>ii..,i t,, hoax 
A cli)\' -<jne 

WK ■lucoutii louK and gait, 

A]': : ressly meant by fate 

For bein^ ijuizzed and played upon : 
So having tipped the wink to those 

In the back rows. 
Who kept their laughter bottled down, 

I'll til our wag should draw the cork. 
If,, -,,,;!,,! jocosely on the clown, 
t to Wvirk. 

2. " Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York ? 

" Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you, 

But on four legs, insteal 1 two." 
" Officer ! " cried the legal elt, 
Piqued at the laugh against himself, 

" Do. pray, keep silence down below there. 
Now 1 lok at me, clown, and attend; 
Have I not seen you somewhere, friend ? " 

" Yees — very like — I often go there.'* 
" Our rustic 's waggish — quite laconic,** 
The counsel cried with grin sardonic; 

**I wish I M known this prodigy, 


This genius of the clods, when I 

On circuit was at York residing. 
Now, Farmer, do for once speak true — 
Mind, you 're on oath, so tell nic, you. 
Who doubtless think yourself so clever, 
Are there as many fools as over 

In the West Riding ? " 
" Why — no, sir, no ; we 've got our share, 
But not so many as when you were there ! " 



1. A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the east- 
Haughty, being great — purse-proud, being rich, 

A governor, or general, at the least, 
I have forgotten which — 

Had in his family an humble youth, 

Who went from England in his patron's suite, 

An unassuming boy, and in truth 

A lad of decent parts, and good rei-uLo. 

L This youth had sense and spirit ; 
But yet, with all his sense, 
Excessive diflBdence 
Obscured his merit 

3. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, 

His honor, proudly free, severely merry. 
Conceived it would be vastly fine 
To crack a joke upon his secretary. 

4. "Young man," ho said, "by what art, craft or trade, 

Did your good father gain a livelihood ? " — 
" He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, 
" And in his time was reckoned good." 

5. "A saddler, oh! and taught you Greek, 

Instead of teaching you to sew ! 
Prny, why did not your father make 
A saddler, sir, of you ? " 

H. Kach parasite, then, as in duty bound, 

TIm» joko iipplauded, and the laugh wont round. 

At h'li^ih Modestus, bowing low, 
Said, (craving pardon, if too free he made,) 

" Sir, by your leave I fain would know 
Your father's trade ! " 


7. *' My father's trade ! Bless me, that 's too bad ! 
My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you inad! 
My father, sir, did never stoop so low 
lie was a gentlero.on, I M hM"» ^ • ' 

8 "Excuse the liberty I take, 

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, 
" Pray, why did not your father make 
A gentleman of you ? " 


1. On! learning's a very fine thing, 

As, also, are wisdom and knowledge; 
For a man is as great as a king, 

If he has but the airs of a college. 
And now-a-days all must admit. 

In learning we 're wondrously favored, 
For you scarce o'er your window can spiv^ 

But some learn-ed man is beslavered I 

2. We '11 all of us shortly be doomed 

To part with our plain understanding; 
For intellect now has assumed 

An attitude truly commanding! 
All ranks are so dreadfully wise. 

Common sense is set quite at defiance. 
And the child for its porridge that cries, 

Must cry in the language of science ! 

3. The Weaver it surely becomes 

To talk of his web's involution ; 
For doubtless the hero of thrums. 

Is a member of some Institution. 
He speaks of supply and demand. 

With the air of a great legislator, 
And almost can tell you off-hand, 

That the smaller is less than the greater I 

4. The Blacksmith, 'mid cinders and smoke. 

Whose visage is one of the dimmest, 
His furnace profoundly will poke, 
With the air of a practical chemist; 


Poor Vulcan has recently got 

A lingo that 's almost historic, 
And can tell you that iron is hot, 

Because it is filled with caluricl 

The Mason, in book-learned tone. 

Describes, in the very best grammar. 
The resistance that dwells in the stone. 

And the power that resides in the hammer; 
For the son of the trowel and hod 

Looks as big as the frog in the fable, 
While he talks in a jargon as odd 

As his brethren, the builders of Babel ! 

The Cobbler who sits at your gate, 

Now pensively points his hog's bristle, 
Though the very same Cobbler of late 

O'er his work used to sing and to whistle ; 
But cobbling 's a paltry pursuit 

For a man of polite education ; 
Ilis works may be trod under foot. 

Yet he *8 one of the lords of creation ! 

Oh 1 learning 's a very fine thing ! 

It almost is treason to doubt it — 
Yet many of whom I could sing, 

Perhaps, might as well be without it: 
And without it my days I will pass. 

For to me it was ne'er worth a dollar, 
And I do n't wish to look like an ass 

By trying to talk like a scholar! 

Blackwood's magazink. 


1. WiiKN the party commences, all starched and all glum, 
They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum : 

They will tell you of ribbons, of cambric, of lace, 
How cheap they were sold — and will tell you the placa 
They discourse of their colds, and tliey hem and they conj^h, 
And complain of their servants to pass the time off. 

2. Bi tt enlivener of wit and of soul, 
More loi^uucious by far than the draughts of the buwl, 


Soon loo8eD8 the tongue and enlivens the minJ, 

And enlightens their ejes to the faults of mankind. 

It brings on the tapis their neighbors' defects, 

The faults of their friends, or their willful neglects ; 

Uemlnds them of many a good-natured tale 

Of those who are stylish and those who arc frail, 

Till «he sweet-tempered dames are converted by tea, 

Into character-manglers — Qunaikophagi. 

In harmless chitrcliat an acquaintance they roast. 

And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast. 

Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake. 

Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relished as cake: 

A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust. 

It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first 

With a little affected good nature, and cry 

Nobody regrets the thing deeper than I. 

3. Ah ladies, and was it by heaven designed. 
That ye should be merciful, loving, and kind! 
Did it form you like angels and send you below. 
To propliesy peace — to bid charity flow? 

And have you thus left your primeval estate. 
And wandered so widely — so strangely of late? 
Alas ! the sad course I too plainly can see. 
These evils have all come upon you through tea. 

4. Cursed weed, that can make your fair spirifci resigm 
The character mild of their mission divine, 

That can blot from their bosoms that tenderness true, 

Which from female to female for ever is due. 

Oh how nice is the texture, how fragile the frame 

Of that delicate blossom, a female's fair fame. 

'T U the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath. 

And shrinks from the touch as if pregnant with death. 

How often, how often, has innocence sighed, 

Has beauty been reft of its honor, its pride, 

Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light, 

Been painted as dark as a demon of night ; 

All offered up victims — an auto da f^. 

At the gloomy cabals, the dark orgies of tea. 

5. If I, in the remnant that 's left me of life. 
Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife, 

Let me fall, I implore, in the slang- whanger's claw. 
Where the evil is open, and subject to law ; 


Not nibbled atd mumbled, and put to the rack, 
By the sly undermining of tea-party clack. 
Condemn me, ye gods, to a newspaper roasting, 
But spare me! oh> ,.,<> •, tea-table toastingi 


] TuERE once was a toper — I '11 not tell his name — 
Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame; 
And often and often he wished himself dead, 
For if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed 
lie spent all his evenings away from his home, 
And when he returned, he would sneakingly come 
And try to walk straightly, and say not a word — 
Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord r 
For, if he dared say his tongue was his own, 
'T would get her tongue going, in no gentle tone. 
And she 'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard na\j<«^ 
And he 'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames. 

2. It happened, one night, on a frolic he went, 
lie staid till his very last penny was spent, 
But how to go home, and get safely to bed, 
Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed. 
But home he must go: so he caught up his hat. 
And off he went singing, by this and by that, 
" I '11 pluck up my courage, I guess she 's in bed. 
If she aint, 't is no matter, I 'm sure : Who 's afraid ? " 
lie came to his door: he lingered until 
He peeped: and he listened, and all seemed quite still; 
In he went, and his wife sure enough was in bed ! 
"Ohl" says he, "it's just as I thought: Who' s afraid', ' 

3 lie crept about softly, and spoke not a word. 
His wife seemed to sleep, for she never e'en stirred ! 
Thought he, "for this night, then, my fortune is made! 
For my dear scolding wife is asleep! Who 's afraid?" 
But soon, ho felt thirsty ; and slyly he rose. 
And groping around, to the table he goes, 
The pitcher found empty, and so was the bowl, 
The pail and the tumblers, — she 'd emptied the whole 1 
At length in a comer, a vessel he found ! 
Says he, "here's something to drink, "I'll be bound I" 


^50 EI. ^'M-roN. 

And eagerly seizing, he lilted it up,— 

And drank it all off, in one long hearty sup I 

4. It tasted so queerly: and, what it could be, 
lie wondered : — it neither was water, nor tea I 
Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear, 
'Oh! it must be the poison for rnts, I declare I" 
And loudly he called on his dear sleeping wife, 
And begged her to rise: "for," said he, **on my life,— 
I fear it was poison, the bowl did contain ! 
Oh! dear I yes, — it was poison, I now feel the pain!" 
*• And what made you dry, sir?" the wife sharply cried: 
*' 'T would serve you just right if from poison you died : 
And you 've done a^n< job, and you 'd now better mar<;h, 
For just see, you bnite, you hate drank all my starch I" 


1. WuEN of a man I ask a question, 

I wish he 'd answer "yes" or "no;" 
Not stay to make some smooth evasion. 
And only tell me, "may be so." 

2. When of a friend I wish to borrow, 

A little cash, to hear him say 
I 've none to-day, but on to-morrow," 
Is worse than if he told me " nay." 

3. I from my soul despise all quibbling, 

I '11 use it not with friend or foe. 
But when they ask, without dissembling, 
I 'U plainly answer, "yes" or ''no." 

4. Why all this need of plastering over. 

What we in fact intend to show ; 
Why not at once, with much less labor. 
Say frankly " yes, my friend," or " no. 

5. But when I ask that trembling question, 

"Will you be mine, my dearest miss?' 
Then may there be no hesitation, 
But say distinctly, "yes, sir, yes." 



1. lb it any body's business, 

If a gentleman should choose 
To wait upon a lady, 

If the lady do n't refuse? 
Or to speak a little plainer. 

That the meaning all may know ; 
Is it any body's business 

If a lady has a beau ? 

2 Is it any body's business 

When that gentleman may call, 
Or when he leaves a lady, 

Or if he leaves at all ? 
Or is it necessary 

That the curtain should be drawn, 
To save from further trouble, 

The outside lookers-on ? 

3. Is it any body's business 

But the lady's, if her beau 
Rides out with other ladies. 

And does n't let her know ? 
Is it any body's business 

But the gentleman's, if she 
Accepts another escort, 

Where ho does n't chance to be ? 

4. Is :i person on the sidewalk, 

Whether great or whether small, 
Is it any body's business 

Where that person means to callt 
Or if you se'e a person. 

As he 's calling any where, 
Is it any of your business 

What his business may be there T 

6. The substance of our query. 

Simply stated, would be this— 
Is it any body's business 

What another's btisiness isl 
If it is, or if it is n't. 

We would really like to know, 
For we *re certain if it is n't, 

There :iro some who make it sa 


] 'I'lii-ui,' iki ui.i ^. ;. w,.., ... 

Ill uto rhjm« 

iSin^^H* aim uuuint? ; 

To see how one thing with another chimes ; 
if you have wit enough to pUm a 
r somothinir else to write about 

;ry it now; ouo Asa Stokes, 
nil . whom every thing provokes, 

A burly-tciupcrcJ, evil-minded, bearish, 
Ill-natured kind of being; 
He was the deacon of the parish, 
And had the overseeing 
Of some small matter.- 
Of the church-bell, ana > 

till; ll.tlU 

3. Well, Deacon Stokes had gone to bed, one ni-iit, 
About eleven or before, 

'T was in December, if my memory 's right, in '24. 

'T was cold enough to make a Russian shiver ; 

I think I never knew one 

Colder than this,— in faith it was a blue one I 

As ]>y till- almanac foretold, 't was 

A real Laplaud night. dear! how cold 't was! 

4. There was a chap about there named Ezekiel, 
A clever, good- for-notli \, 

Who very often used u .;,.. p-ite mellow; 

Of ^vhonl the Deacon always used to speak ill; 

For he was fond of cracking jokes 

On Deacon Stokes, to show on 

What terms he stood among the women folks, and so 

5. It came to pass that on the night I epeak of, 
Ezekiel left the tavern bar-room, where 

He spent the evenintr. for the sake of 

Drowning his eare, hy partaking 

Of the merry-making and enjoyment 

Of some good fellows there, whose sole employment 

Was, all kinds of weather, on every night, 

By early caudle light, to get together 

Reading the papers, smoking pipes and cliewing, 

Tolling long yarn?, and pouring down the ruin. 

AMUSING. 451t 

6 Pretty well orned, and up to any thing, 
Drunk as a lord, and happy as a king, 
Blue a8 a razor, from his midnight revel, 
Nor fearing muskets, women, or the devil ; 
With a light heart — much lighter than a foathpi — 
With a light soul that spurned the freezing weather, 
And with a head ten times as light as either ; 
And a purse, perhaps, as light as all together, 
On went Ezekiel, with a great expansion 
Of thought, until he brought 
Up at a post before the Deacon's mansion. 

7. With ono arm round the post, awhile he stoud 
In thoughtful mood, with one eye turned 

Up toward the window where, with feeble glare, 

A candle burned; 

Then with a serious face, and a grave, mysterious 

Shake of the head, Ezekiel said — 

(His right eye once more thrown upon the beacon 

That from the window shone,) " I 'i\ start the Deacon I" 

8. Rap, rap, rap, rap, went Deacon Stokes's knocker. 
But no one stirred ; rap, rap, it wont again ; 

** By George, it must be after ten, or 
They must take an early hour for turning in." 
Rap, rap, rap, rap — *' My conscience, how they keep 
A fellow waiting — Patience, how they sleep! 

9. The Deacon then began to be alarmed, 
And in amazement throw up the casement: 
And with cap on head, of fiery red. 
Demanded what the cause was of the riot, 
That thus disturbed his quiets 

10. " Quite cool this evening, Deacon Stokes," replied 
The voice below. "Well, sir, what is the matter? " 
"Quito chilly. Deacon; how your teeth do chjitter!" 

*' You vagabond, a pretty time you have chosen 

To show your wit ; for I am almost frozen ; 

Be off, or I will put the lash on!" 

•• Why bless you. Deacon, do 'nt be in a passion I " 

'T was all in vain to speak again, 

For with the Deacon's threat about the lash, 

Down went the 


11. Rap, rap, rap, rap, the knocker weut again, 
And neither of them was a very li^^ht rap ; 
Thump, thump, against the door went Ezckiel's cane, 
And that once more brought Deacon Stokes's night-cap. 

12. "Very cold weather, Dcacun Stok*»- tM-T.i.rht! " 
" Begone, you vile, insolent dog, or I '11 

iiive you a warming that shall serve you n^nt ; 

Yu\i villain, it is time to end the hoax 1 " 

** Why bless your soul and body. Deacon Stokes, 

Do n't bo so cross when I 've come here, in this severe 

Night, which is cold enough to kill a horse, 

For your advice upon t very difficult and nice 

Question. Now, bless you, do make haste and dress you." 

13. "Well, well, out with it, if it must be so; 
Be quick about it, I 'm very colA" 

" Well, Deacon, I do n't doubt it. 

In a few words the matter can bo told 

D aeon, the case is thia ; I want to know^ 

I. this cold weather last*? all summer here, — 

What time will green peas come alon^r next year?" 



1. Touch thee? No, viper of vengeance! Didst thoa 
not promise to make me strong? aye, strong as Sampson; 
and rich, rich as Croesus ? But instead of this, villain ! you 
have stripped me of my flocks ; left my pockets empty ; 
robbed me of my senses ; made me wretched ; made me 
miserable; and then laid me in the -ditch. Touch thee? 
No ! I will slay thee, rather. 

2. But one embrace before thou diest. 1 always thought 
*t was best to give the devil his due ; and (tasting), devil, 
thou hast a pleasant face, a sparkling eye, a ruby lip, and 
thy breath (tasting) is sweeter than the breath of roses. 
My honey (tasting), thou shalt not die. I '11 stand by thee, 
day and night; I'll fight for thee; I'll teach (hie) others 
a little wisdom ; I '11 live (tasting) on milk and (hie) 
honey, and (tasting) be the happiest man on earth. 




1 I ix)VE it! I love it! and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm chair? 
I 've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
I 've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with -ighB 
'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart, 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 
Would you know the spell ? a mother sat there . 
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 

2. In childhood's hour I lingered near 
That hallowed seat with a listening ear, 

To the gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die and teach me to live ; 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed, and God for my g^ide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 

As I knelt beside that old arm chair. 

3. I sat and watched her many a day 

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray, 
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child : 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped. 
My idol was 8hattere<l, my earth-star fled ! 
I felt how much the heart can bear. 
When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 

4. 'T is past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now 
With quivering lip and throbbing brow; 

'T was there she nursed me, 't was there shb died, 

And memory still flows with lava tide. 

Say it is f<»lly, and deem mo weak. 

As the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 

But I love it! I love it! and can not tear 

My »oul from my mothor' s old arm chair! iliza cooil 


T T O K . 


1. This immaculate, invincible uprightness in public 
Btation, is no dream of visionaries. We can not dismiss it 
as a glory of the past, impracticable and fabulous at present. 
This is infidelity to Providence, to history, to the ever 
living heart of Christ. Besides, the instances st^ind forth, 
illustrious and imperial, in every Christian nation — the 
honor of statesmanship, the defense of governments, the 
strength of their age against all partisan or selfish con- 

2. Look, for a single example of that power, into the 
last generation, and the legislative halls of England. 
Trained in the best refinement and learning of his time, 
coming forth from the midst of London fashions and pal- 
aces, where the frowns of the world are most formidable, 
and its flatteries most seductive, familiar from his child- 
hood with the luxuries of fortune and the policies of a false 
expediency, yet witii ion quickened by Christian 
faith, and his whole nature lightened and invigorated by 
the lessons of Olivet and Calvary, Wilberforce enters Par- 
liament. Many a hard test tries his steadfastness. Erect, 
and yet courteous, he never swerves. He sees straight 
through every moral sophistry, and no chicanery can cheat 
him into one doubtful compliance. Hardest of all, Melville 
is impeached. Friendship, favor, interest, social alliance, 
popularity, all importune this Christian statesman to take 
up the cause of the accused. 

3. There was the eloquent countenance, and the trumpet 
tongue of Pitt pleading the same way. But there was one 
voice on the other side, stiller, grander, the voice of a 
righteous sincerity, and from that he was accustomed to 
take no appeal. He knew Melville was wrong, the accusa- 
tion just. Not an instant's hesitation. He stood up to 
speak for Right, stripped bare of all enchantments, and he 
knew that, speaking for that, he spoke for man, for his 
country, for God ; because he who obeys a law higher than 
that of states, obeys a law in which alone any state is safe. 
Proud and powerful men looked on with disappointment, 


(lilt {'. sriy with wrath. Kvery sentence was like hacking 
away old and precious bonds of fellowship. 

4. Melville was condemned, and how ? Let the words of 
another's history answer : " It was felt that in a question 
of pimple integrity, where casuistry had to be eluded, and 
plausibility swept aside, this religious tongue was the last 
authority in England. In the British senate, in the nine- 
teenth century, when a point of morality was to be settled, 
it was not to the man of dueling honor, it was not to the 
philosophic moralist, that men looked for a decision ; it was 
to the Christian senator whose code was the Bible," kneel- 
ing every morning before the All-seeing Eye, going up to 
his seat from his closet, through all the perplexities of his 
place, saying ever secretly to his God, " Lead me only by 



1. Who shall judge a man from nature? 

Who shall know him by his dress ? 
Paupers may be fit for princes, 

Princes fit for somethinj;; less. 
Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket 

 May beelothe the golden ore 
Of the deepest thought and feeling — 

Satin vest could do no more. 

2. There are springs of crystal nectar 

Ever swelling out of stone ; 
There are purple buds and golden, 

Hidden, crushed, and overgrown. 
God, who counts by souls, not dresses, 

L(>vc8 and prospers you and me ; 
While lie values thrones the highest 

But as pebbles in the sea. 

3. Mnn, upraised above his fellows 

Oft forgets his fellows then ; 
Masters — rulers — lords, remember. 

That your meanest hands are men I 
Men of labor, meu of feeling. 
Men by thought and men by fiune, 
KiDD— 39 


Claiming equal rights to sunshine 
In a man's ennobling name. 

4. There are foam-embroidered oceans, 

There are little weed-clad rills, 
There are feeble, inch-high saplings, 

There are cedars on the hills ; 
Qod, who counts by souls, not stations, 

Loves and prospers you and me: 
For to him all vain distinctions 

Are as pebbles in the sea. 

5. Toiling hands alone are builders 

Of a nation's wealth and fame ; 
Titled laziness is pensioned, 

Fed, and fattened on the same; 
By the sweat of other's foreheads, 

Living only to rejoice, 
While the poor man's outraged freedom 

Vainly lifleth up its voice. 

6. Truth and justice are eternal. 

Born with loveliness and light; 
Secret wrong shall never prosper 

While there is a starry night. 
God, whose world-heard voice is singing 

Boundless love to you and me, 
Sinks oppression with its titles. 

As the pebbles in the sea. 


Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle of Montgom'ry ; 
Green be your woods and fair your flowersi 

Your waters never drumlie. 
There summer first unfolds his robes, 

And there they longest tarry ; 
For there I took my last farewell 

Of my sweet Highland Mary. 

Ilow sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 
IIow rich the hawthorn's blossom; 

As underneath their fragrant shade, 
I clasped her to my bosom. 


The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to mo as li^ht and life, 

Was mj sweet Ilighland Mary. 

With many a vow and locked embrace, 

Our parting was full tender ; 
And pledging oft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder, 
But, oh! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower so early! 
Now green 's the sod and cold 's the clay, 

That wraps my Ilighland Mary. 

Oh I. pale, pale now those rosy lips 

I oft have kissed so fondly ; 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt on me so kindly. 
And moldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that loved me dearly ; 
But still within my bosom's core 

Sluill live my Ilighland Mary! bcrna. 


"GooD-NiGUT, Sir Rook," said a little Lark; 
" The daylight fades, it will soon be dark ; 
I 've bathed my wings in the sun's last rayy 
I 've sung my hymn to the dying day, 
So now I haste to my quiet nook 
In the dewy meadow: good-night. Sir Rook." 

'• Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend. 

With a haughty toss and a distant bend; 

" I also go to my rest profound, 

But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground; 

The fittest place for a bird like me, 

Th the topmost bough of the tall pine-tree. 

1 opened my eyes at the peep of day. 
And Haw you taking your upward way. 
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams, 
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams ; 
Soaring too high to bo seen or heard — 
And said to myself, what a foolinh birdl 


4. '* I trod the park with a princely air ; 
I filled my crop with tho richest faro ; 
I cawed ail day 'mid a lordly crow, 
And made more noise in the world than you I 
Tho sun shone full on my ebon wing; 
I looked and wondered; good-night, poor thing I" 

5 "Good-night, once more," said the Lark's swoet voioe, 
*'I see no cause to repent my choice; 
You build your nest in the lofty pine, 
But is your slumber more soft than mine? 
You make more noise in the world than I, 
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?" 


1. 0, FOR one hour of youthful joy I 

Give me back my twentieth spring I 
I 'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy 
Than reign a gray-haired king ! 

2. Off with the wrinkled spoil)* if age I 

Away with learning's crown ! 
Tear out life's wisdom- written page, 
And dash its trophies down I 

3. One moment let my life-blood stream 

From boyhood's fount of flame 1 
Give me one giddy, reeling dream 
Of life all love and fame! 

4. My listening angel heard the prayer. 

And, calmly smiling, said, 
" If I but touch thy silvered hair. 
Thy hasty wish hath sped. 

5. *' But is there nothing in thy track 

To bid thee fondly stay, 
While the swift seasons hurry back 
To find the wished-for day?" 

6. Ah! truest soul of womankind! 

Without thee what were life ? 
One bliss I can not leave behind : 
I '11 take— my — precious — wife 1 


7. The angel took a eapphiro pen 

And wrote in rainbow dew, 
" The man would be a boy again. 
And be a husband, too I" 

8. **AQd is there nothing jet unsaid 

Before the change appears ? 
Remember, all their gifts have fled 
AVith those dissolving years I" 

9. " Why, yes ; for memory would recall 

My fond paternal joys ; 
I could not bear to leave them all: 
I '11 take — my — girls — and — boys I" 

10. The smiling angel dropped his pen — 

"Why, this will never do; 
The man would be a boy again. 
And be a father, too i" 

11. And 80 I laughed — my laughter woke 

The household with its noise — 
And wrote my dream, when morning broke. 
To please the gray-haired boys. 

DR. H0LHI8. 


1. One of the most melancholy productioDS of a morbid 
condition of life is the sniveler ; a biped that infests all 
classes of society, and prattles, from the catechism of de- 
spair, on all subjects of human concern. The spring of his 
mind is broken. A babyish, nerveless fear has driven the 
sentiment of hope from his soul. IIo cringes to every 
phantom of apprehension, and obeys the impulses of cow* 
ardicc, as though they were the laws of existence. He ia 
the very Jeremiah of, and his life one long 
and lazy lamentation. In connection with this maudlin 
brotherhood, his humble aim in life is, to superadd the 
snivclization of society to its civilization. Of all bores he 
is the most intolerable and merciless. 

2. He drawls misery to you through his nose on all oo 
casions. He stops you at the corner of the street to intrust 


you with his opinion on the probability, that the last mea- 
sure of Congress will dissolve the Union. He fears, also, 
that the morals and intelligence of the people are destroyed 
by the election of some rogue to office. In a time of gene- 
ral health, he speaks of the pestilence that is to be. The 
mail can not be an hour late, but he prattles of railroad 
>iccident8 and steamboat disasters. He fears that his friend 
who was married yesterday, will be a bankrupt in a year, 
and whimpers over the trials which he will then endure. 
As a citizen and politician, he has ever opposed every use- 
ful reform, and wailed over every rotten institution as it 
fell. He has been, and is, the foe of all progress, and 
always cries over the memory of the " good old days." In 
short, he is ridden with an eternal nightmare, emits ao 
eternal wail. e. p. Whipple. 


1. Therb is of^en sadness in the tone, 
And a moisture in the eye, 

And a trembling sorrow in the voice, 

When we bid a last good-bye. 

But sadder far than this, I ween, 

0, sadder far than all. 

Is the heart-throb with which wo stram 

To catch the last footfall. 

2. The last press of a loving hand 
Will cause a thrill of pain, 

When we think, " Oh, should it prove that 

Shall never meet again." 

And as lingeringly the hands unclasp, 

The hot, quick drops will fall ; 

But bitterer are the tears we shed, 

When we hear the last footfall. 

3. We never felt how dear to us 
Was the sound we loved full well, 
We never knew how musical, 

Till its last echo fell : 

And till we heard it pass away 

Far. ftir beyond recall, 



We never thought what grief 't would be 
To hear the last footfall. 

4. And years and days that long are passed, 
And the scenes that seemed forgot, 
Rush through the mind like meteor-light 
As we linger on the spot; 
And little things that were as nought, 
But now will be our all, 
Come to us like an echo low 
Of the last, the last footfall ! 


1 . There 's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told, 

Where they know not the sorrows of time- 
Where the pure waters wander though valleys of gold, 

And life is a treasure sublime; 
'T is the land of our God, *t is the home of the soul, 
Where the ages of splendor eternally roll — 
Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal. 

On the evergreen Mountains of Life. 

2. Our gaze can not soar to that beautiful land, 

But our visions have told of its bliss, 
And our souls by the gale of its gardens are fanned. 

When we faint in the desert of this ; 
And we some times have longed for its holy repose, 
When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes, 
And we 've drank from the tide of the river that flows' 

From the evergreen Mountains of LiO). 

X. 0, the stars never tread the blue heavens at night, 
But wo think where the ransomed have trod ; 

And the day never smiles from his palace of light. 
But we feel the bright smile of our God. 

We are traveling homeward through changes ana glooni. 

To a kingdom whore pleasures unceasingly bloom. 

And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb. 
From the evergreen Mountains of Life. 

J. 0. CLABK 



Mtstirious night 1 when tho first man but knew 
Thee by report, unseen, and heard thy name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue? 

Yet 'neath a curtain of transluoent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus, with ^e host of heaven, came. 

And lo ! creation widened on his view. 
Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, Sun ? or who could find. 
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed. 

That to such endless orbs thou makest us blind f 
Weak man I why, to shun death, this anxious strife 7 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 



1. "Deliver us from evil," Heavenly Father ! 

It still besets us wheresoe'er we go I 
Bid the bright rays of revelation gather 

To light the darkness in our way of woe ! 
Remove the sin that stains our souls — forever! 

Our doubts dispel— our confidence restore! 
Write thy forgiveness on our hearts, and never 

Let us in vain petition for it mora 

2. Release us from the sorrows that attend us! 

Our nerves are torn — at every vein we bleed ! 
Almighty Parent ! with thy strength befriend us ! 

Else we are helpless in our time of need ! 
Sustain us. Lord, with thy pure Holy Spirit — 

New vigor give to Nature's faltering frame ; 
And, at life's close, permit us to inherit 

The hope that 's promised in the Savior's name I 

U. p. M0RRI& 


With silent awe I hail the sacred mom, 
Which slowly wakes while all the fields are still; 
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 
A craver murmur gurgles from the rill, 

MI8CBLLANB0U8. 4(ib 

And echo answers softer from the hill ; 
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn — 
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
Ilail, light serene I Ilail, sacred Sabbath morn I 
The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; 
The sun, a placid yellow luster shows; 
The gales that lately sighed along the grove, 
Ilavo hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 
The hovering rack of clouds forget to move — 
So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! 



1. 0, A WONDERFUL Stream is the river Time, 

As it runs through the realm of tears. 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, 

As it blends with the Ocean of Years. 

2. How the winters are drilling, like flakes of snow, 

And the summers, like buds between ; 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go, 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow. 

As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

3. There 's a magical isle up the river of Time, 

Where the softest of airS are playing ; 
There 's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime. 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

4. And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there; 
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow — 
There are heaps of dust — but we loved them so I — 

Thei are trinkets and tresses of hair ; 

5. There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer; 
There 's a lute unswcpt, and a harp without strings . 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garments timt she used to wear 

4 on ELOC T'' T '' ^' . 

6. There are hands that ore waved, whoa the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air; 
And we some tiroes hear, through the turbulent roar, 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river is faxr, 

7. 0, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle, 

All the day of our life till night — 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile. 

May that *' Greenwood" of Soul be in sight! 



1. Tns spearmen heard the bugle sound, and cheerly smiled 

the morn; 
And many a brach, and many a hound, attend Llewellyn's horn ; 
And still he blew a louder blast, and gave a louder cheer ; 
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear? 
01 where does faithful Gelert roam, the flower of all his race? 
So true, so brave, — a lamb at home, a lion in the chase!'' 
That day Llewellyn little loved the chase of hart or hare ; 
And scant and small the booty proved, for Gelert was not there. 

2. Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied, when, near the portal 

His truant Gelert he espied, bounding his lord to greet, 
But when he gained the castle-door, aghast the chieftain stood ; 
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore : his lips f\nd fangs 

ran blood! 
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise; unused such looks to meet, 
Ilis favorite checked his joyful guise, and crouched, and licke<l 

his feet. 
Onward in haste, Llewellyn passed (and on went Gelert, too). 
And still, where e'er his eyes were cast, fresh blood-gouts shocked 

his view! 

3. O'ertumed his Infant's bed he found, the blood-stained cover 

And all around the walls and ground with recent blood besprent 
He called his child ; no voice replied ; he searched with terror wild ; 
Blood! blood ! he found on every side, but no where found his child , 


" Death-hound 1 by thee my child 's devoured I" the frantic father 

cried ; 
And to the hilt his vengeful sword he plunged in Qelcrt's side. 
His suppliant, as to earth he fell, no pity could impart; 
But still his Gelert's dying yell passed heavy o'er his heart 

4. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, some slumberer wnkened nigh : 
What words the parent's joy can toll, to hear his infant cry I 
Concealed beneath a mangled heap, bis hurried search had missed. 
All glowing from his rosy sleep, his cherub boy ho kissed 1 

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread; but the same couch 

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead, tremendous still in death I 
Ah I what was then Llewellyn's pain I for now the truth was clear , 
The gallant hound the wolf had slain, to save Llewellyn's heir. 

5. Yain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe 1 " Best of thy kind, adieu I 
The frantic deed that laid thee low, this heart shall ever rue !" 
And now a noble tomb they raise, with costly sculpture decked ; 
And marbles, storied with his praise, poor Gelert's bones protect. 
Here never could the spearmen pass, or forester, unmoved; 
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. 
And here he hung his horn and spear, and oft, as evening fell, 
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear poor Gelert's dying yell. 



The chambered nautilus lives in a series of enlarging compartment^ 
arranged in a widening spiral. It forsakes, after a time, one com« 
partmcnt, makes a new one and dwells there, and so on till it dies. 

1. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the Hwect summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where Uie cold sea-maids rise to sun ^]^,^^,r streaming baic. 

2. Its webs of living gauze no more imiwn . 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
And every chambered cell, 

468 ELocr-^^ V 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sanless crypt unsealed! 

3. Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread bis lustrous coil : 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soil step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more 

4. Thanks for the heavenly message brought to thee, 

Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom 
Than ever Triton blew from wreath'^ horn I 

While un mine ear it rings. 
Through tbe deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : 

5. Build thee more stately mansions, my soul. 

As the swifl seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
Let each new icuiple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 



1 REMEMBER once lidiog from Buffalo to the Niagara 
Falls. I said to a gentleman, " What river is that, sir?" 

" That," he said, "is Niagara river." 

" Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I ; " bright and fair 
and glassy ; how far off are the rapids?" 

" Only a mile or two," was the reply. 

" Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the 
water in the turbulence which it must show near to the 

" You will find it so, sir." And so I found it ; and the 


first sight of Nis-gara I shall never forget. Now, launch 
your bark on that Niagara river ; it is bright, smooth, beau- 
tiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the bowj the silver 
wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the 
stream you glide, oars, sails and helm in proper trim, and 
you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some 
one cries out from the bank, " Young men, ahoy !" 

" What is it?" 

" The rapids are below you." 

*' Ila I hah 1 we have heard of the rapids, but we are not 
such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall 
up with the helm and steer to the shore ; we will set the 
mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. 
Then on, boys ; do n't be alarmed — there is no danger." 

" Young men, ahoy there !" 

"What is it?" 

" The rapids are below you!" 

"Ha! hah! we will laugh and quaflf; all things delight 
us. What care we for the future ! No man ever saw it. 
Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy 
life while we may ; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is 
enjoyment ; time enough to steer out of danger when we 
are sailing swiftly with the current." 

•* Young tncn, ahoy ! " 

"What is it?" 

" Beware 1 Beware 1 The rapids are below you ! " 

Now you see the water foaming all around. See how 
fast you pas* that point ! Up with the helm I Now turn I 
Pull hard ! quick ! quick 1 quick ! pull for your lives ! pull 
till the blood starts from thy nostrils, and the veins stand 
like whip-cords upon thy brow! Set the mast in the socket! 
Iioist the sail I ah ! ah I it is too late! "Shrieking, cursing 
buwling, blaspheming ; over they go." 

Thousands go over the rapids every year, through the 
power of habit, crying all the while, " when I find out that 
it is injuring me I will give it up!" J. n. GOUOH. 



1. Toouan many and bright aro the stars that appear, 

In that flag by our country unfurled; 
And the stripes that aro swelling in majesty there, 

Like a rainboMr adorning the world, 
Tiieir lights are unsullied as those in the sky, 

By a deed that our fathers have done ; 
And they 're leagued in as true and as holy a tie, 

In their motto of *'Many in on 

2. From the hour when those patriots fearlessly flung 

That banner of stxirlight abroad, 
Ever true to themselree, to that motto they clung. 

As they clung to the promise of Ood : 
By the bhyonet traced at the midnight of war, 

On the fields where our glory was won; 
Oh I perish the heart or the hand that would mar 

Our motto of ** Many in one." 

3. Mid the smoke of the contest — the cannon's deep «uar 

How ofl hath it gathered renown 1 
While those stars were reflected in rivers of gore, 

When the oroes and the lion went down ; 
And though few were their lights in the gloom of tha.* Uc\ur 

Yet the hearts that were striking below. 
Had God for their bulwark and truth for their power 

And they stopped not to number their foe. 

4. From where our green mountain tops blend with the nkj 

And the giant St. Lawrence is rolled, 
To the waves where the balmy Ilesperides lie, 

Like the dream of some prophet of old ; • 
They conquered — and dying, bequeathed to our care — 

Not this boundless dominion alone — 
But that banner, whose loveliness hallows the aii. 

And their motto of "Many in one." 

5 We are many in one, while there glitters a star 

In the blue of the heavens above; 
And tyrants shall quail mid their dungeons afar, 

When they gaze on that motto of love. 
It shall gleam o'er the sea, mid the bolts of the storm. 

Over tempest, and battle, and wreck, 
And flame where our guns with their thunder grow warm 

'Neath the blood, on the slippery deck. 


6. The oppressed of the earth to that standard shall fly, 

Wherever its folds shall bo spread ; 
And the exile shall feel 't is his own native sky 

Where its stars shall float over his head. 
And those stars shall increase, till the fullness of time, 

Its millions of cycles has run — 
Till the world shall have welcomed its mission sublime. 

And the nations of earth shall be one. 

7. Though the old Alleghany may tower to heaven, 

And the Father of waters divide, 
The links of our destiny can not be riven, 

While the truth of these words shall abide. 
Ohl then, let them glow on each helmet and brand. 

Though our blood like our rivers shall run; 
Divide as we may in our own native land, 

To the rest of the world we are one. 

8. Then, up with our flag — let it stream on the air. 

Though our fathers are cold in their graves ; 
They had hands that could strike, had souls tha*^ «?ould dare 

And their sons were not born to be slaves. 
Up, up with that banner, where'er it may call, 

Our millions shall rally around; 
.4. nation of freemen that moment shall fall 

When its stars shall be trailed on the ground. 

a. w. cPTTim. 


1. Dissolve the Union 1 Let the blush of shame 
Hide, with its crimson glow, the brazen cheek 

Of him who dares avow the traitorous aim. 
'T is not the true, the wise, the good, who speak 
Words of such fearful import : 't is the weak» 
Drunk with fanaticism's poisoned wine. 
Who, reckless of the future, blindly seek 
To hold their saturnalia at the shrine. 
That noble souls have held, and still must hold, divine. 

2. Dissolve the Union 1 madmen, would you 
The glorious motto from our country's crest? 
Would ye despoil the stars and stripes that send 


Home, food, proteotioD, to the world's oppreesed f 
Have ye do reyerenoe for the high bequest, 
That our immortal sires oestowcd ere while f 
Has sin effaced the image God impressed 
On your humanity, that you could smile, 
To see the lurid flames of freedom's funeral pile T 

3. Dissolve the Union I In the day and hour 
Ye rend the blood-cemented ties in twain. 
The fearful cloud of civil war shall lower 

On every old blue hill and sunny plain. 
From torrid Mexico to frigid Maine I 
Dissolve the Union 1 No, ye can not part. 
With idle words, the blessed ties that bind, 
In one the interests of the mif;hty heart. 
That treasure up the hopes of all mankind. 
Awhile, perhaps, the blind may lead the blind, 
From beaten paths to quagmires, ere they find 
The ray that shone so beautiful and bright. 
Was but a phantom lure to deeper, darker night 

4. Dissolve the Union ! Never I Ye may sow 
The peeds of vile dissension through the land. 
May madly aim a parricidal blow. 

And show your disregard of all its grand 
Eternal interests; but a noble band 
Of patriots, tried, and true, will still remain, 
With heart to heart, and sinewy band to hand. 
To guard from foul dishonor's cankering stain, 
The jewels God has shrined in freedom's holy fana 

5. Dissolve the Union! — perish first the page 
That gave to human sight the hideous scrawl — 
Let not the freemen of a future age 

Read these detested words : they would recall 
Shame, madness, imbecility, and all 
That mars the noontide glory of our timet 
True to the undivided, stand or fall, 
To waver now is little less than crime, 
To battle for the right is glorious, is sublime. 




I. EsTO PERPETUA I cvcr ODdunng, 

Still may the national glory increase ; 
L'nion and harmony ever Becuring, 
Prosperity, freedom, religion, and peaca 

2 Great God of the nations, thy goodness hath crowned is, 
A land and a people peculiar to thee; 
Let thy wisdom and power, still mantled around us, 
Preserve what that goodness hath taught to be free I 

3. £sto perpetua 1 0, be it written, 

On every bright link of the sisterhood's chain I 
And bo the red arm of the fratricide smitten, 
Who would sully the compact or rend it in twain. 

4. Let it shine on the folds of our banner outflowing. 

Let it speak on the walls of each parliament hall. 
Till the North and the South with its sanctity glowing, 
Shout, " Esto perpetua ! — union for all." 

5. Esto perpetua I Who would erase it 

From the mount where so long like a beacon it stood. 
Where the sages of freedom delighted to place it, 
And martyrs have shaded each letter with blood? 

6. From Marshfield, the warning in thunder is breaking, 

From Ashland, like music, it floats on the air; 
From the grave of the Hermitage solemnly waking 
Esto perpetua, guard it with care! 

7. Dissever our Union? 0, how would the measure 

Of each in the great computation be cast, 
Her heroes and sages, her blood and her treasure ; 
Her hopes of the future, her deeds of the past— 

H. Her battle fields fertile with valorous daring — 

The bones of her martyrs that under them rest — 
Her monument tributes their memory sharing — 
With the North and the South, the East and the West? 

9 The fame of her JeffersoD proudly defying, 

Like his own Declaration the mildew of time ; 
I Im names of her signers, revered and undying, 
While truth holds a temple, or freedom a shrine ; 
Kinn. — 40 


10. The fume of her Franklin, whose Rcnius ascended 

The htonn-demon'a throne when his thunders were loud. 
And seizing the scepter of lightning, appended 
His name to the scroll of each menacing cloud; 

11. The fame of her Ilenry, whose eloquence breaking 

The spell wliich ha^l fettered the nations so long 
Was heard in the palace, its tyranny shaking, 
And ringing the knell of oppression and wrong; 

12 ! > fame of her Washington, broad as creation* 
The Christian, philosopher, hero, and sage ; 
Uniting the models of every nation. 
The pride and perfection of every 

13 These national jewels, cherish their loster, 
All beauty excelling, all value above; 
Nor sever one gem from the family cluster. 
Nor shatter the casket of union and level 



1. Mast a year hath passed away, 

Many a dark and dismal year, 
Since last I roamed in the light of day. 
Or mingled my own with another's tear ; 

Woe to the daughters :mil sopjj of nipn — 

Woe to tliem all wl 

2. Here have I watched, in this dungeon cell, 
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell ; 
Ilere have I shrieked, in my wild despair, 

When the damned fiends, from their prison came, 
Sported and gamboled, and mocked me hej^. 

Witli their eyes of fire, and their tongue.« o^ 6ame 
Shouting forever and aye my namel 
And I strove in vain to burst my chain. 
And lono^jJ to be free as the winds agaio, 
That T might spring in the wizard ring, 
And scatter them back to their hellish den ! 
Woe to the daughters and sons of men- 
Woe to them all, when I roam again I 


IIow long have I been in this dungeon here. 
Littio I know, and, nothing I care; 

What to me is the day, or night, 
Summer's heat, or autumn sere. 

Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight, 
Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear? 

Timel what care I for thy flight, 
Joy ! I spurn thee with disdain ; 
Nothing love I but this clanking chain : 
Once I broke from its iron hold. 
Nothing I said, but silent, and bold. 
Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold. 
Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair, 
Hours upon hours so watched I here ; 
Till one of the fiends that had come to bring 
Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring, 
Stalked through ray dungeon entrance in I 
Hal how he shrieked to see me free— 
Ho ! how he trembled, and knelt to me. 
He, who had mocked me many a day, 
And barred me out from its cheerful ray — 
Gods I how I shouted to see him pray ! 
I wreathed my hands in the demon's hair. 
And choked his breath in ite muttered prayer, 
And danced I then, in wild delight, 
To see the trembling wretch's fright! 

Gods 1 how I crushed his bated bones I 

'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-etonei ; 

And plunged my arm adown his throat. 

And dragged to life his beating heart, 
And held it up that I might gloat. 

To see its quivering fibers start! 
Ho I how I drank of tlie purple flood, 
Quafied^ and quaffed again, of blood, 
Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no mora^ 
Till I found myself on this dungeon floor, 
Fettered and held by this iron chain; 

Ho! when I break its links again, 

Hal when 1 break its links again. 
Woe to the daughters and sons of men I 



1. In Manchester a maiden dwelt* 

Her name waa Phoebe Brown, 
And she waa considered by good judges to l« bj all 
odda, the best looking girl in the town. 

2. Her age waa nearlj aeventeen, 

Her eyes were sparkling bright, 
A very loTely girl she was, and for a year and a 
half there had been a good-looking young man paying his atten 
tions to her, by the name of Reuben White. 

3. Now Reuben was a nice young man, 

As any in the town ; 
And Phoebe loved him very dear. 
But on account of his being obliged to work for a 
living, he never could make himself agreeable to Mr. and Mrs. 

4. Her parents were resolved 

Another she should wed — 
A rich old miser in the place; 

And old Brown frequently declared, that rather 
than have bis daughter marry Reuben White he M knock him on 
ihs head. 

5. But Phoebe's heart was brave and strong : 

She feared no parent's frowns ; 
And as for Reuben White so bold, 

I 've heard him say more than fifty times, that 
with the exception of Phoebe, he did n't care a cent for the whole 
race of Browns. 

6. Now Phoebe Brown and Reuben White 

Determined they would marry ; 
Three weeks ago last Tuesday night 

They started for old Parson Webster'?, with the 
fixed determination to be united in the holy bonds of wedlock, 
though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the very Old 

7. But Captain Brown was wide awakf, 

He loaded up his gun, 
And then pursued the loving pair— - 
And overtook 'em when they 'd got about half 
way to the Parson's,, when Reuben and Phoebe started upon a run- 


8. Old Brown then took a deadly aim, 

Toward young Reuben's head ; 
But, oh 1 it was a bleeding shame, 

For he made a mistake, and shot his only daugh- 
ler, and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop down 
•tone dead. 

9. Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart. 

And vengeance crazed his brain — 
lie drew an awful jack-knife out. 

And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty 
tim«>8, so that it was very doubtful about his ever coming to again. 

10. The briny drops from Reuben's eyes 
In torrents poured down ; 
Ho yielded up the ghost and died— 

And in this melancholy, and heart-rending man- 
ner terminates the history of Reuben and Phoebe, and likewise 
of old Captain Brown. 


1. The wind is high, the window shakes, 
With sudden start the miser wakes ! 
Along the silent room he stalks ; 
Looks back, and trembles, as he walks 1 

2. Each lock and every bolt he tries, 
In every crack and corner pries; 

Then opes his chest, with treasure stored, 
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard. 

3. But DOW with sudden qualms possessed. 
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast ; 
By conscience stung he wildly stares. 
And thus his guilty soul declares : 

4. •' Had the deep earth her store confined, 
This heart had known sweet peace of mind ; 
But virtue 's sold I Good heavens! what prio« 
Can recompense the pangs of vice? 

5. bane of good I seducing cheat ! 

Can man, weak man, thy power defeat T 
Gold banished honor from the mind, 
And only left the name behind ; 

478 ELOcr-' \'. 

»>. ^^■,\>\ sowed the e;irth cry ill — 

(JmM t;iu;;ht the niuri- n , ^ >word to kill; 
'T was pjld instructed coward hearts 
In treachery's more pernicious arts. 
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er? 
Virtue resides on earth no more! o«t 


i . Do Ton remember all the sanny places. 

Where in bright days long past, we played together? 

Do you remember all the old home faces. 

That gath^^ round the hearth in wintry weather? 

Do you remember all the happy meetings, 

In summer evenings, round the open door — 

Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words, and tender greetings, 

And clasping hands, whose pulses beat no more? 

Do you remember them? 

2. Do you remember when we first departed 

From 'mid the old companions who were round us, 

How very soon again we grew light-hearted. 

And talked with smiles of all the links that bound as? 

And after, when our footsteps were returning. 

With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain, 

How our young hearts kept boiling up and burning. 

To think how soon we 'd be at home again 7 

Do you remember this? 

3. Do you remember how the dreams of glory 
Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure ; 
How thoughtless we of being famed in story, 

And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure? 
Do you remember in far countries, weeping 
When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind 
Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were sleeping, 
And made us yearn for those we left behind? 

Do you remember this? 

i. Do you remember when no sound woke gladly. 
But desolate echoes through our home were ringing. 
How for a while we talked — then paused full sadly. 
Because our voices bitter things were bringing? 


Ah me ! those days — those days ! my friend, my brother, 
Sit down and let us talk of all our woe, 
For we have nothing left but one another ; — 
Yet where they went, old playmate, wo shall go ; 

Let us remember this. 



I. "Little by little/' an acorn said, 
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed ; 
" I am improving every day, 
Hidden deep in the earth away." 
Little by little each day it grew ; 
Little by little it sipped the dew; 
Downward it sent out a thread-like root ; 
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot. 
Day after day, and year after year. 
Little by little, the leaves appear ; 
And the slender branches spread far and wide. 
Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride. 

2. Far down in the depths of the dark blue sea, 
An insect train work ceaselessly; 
Grain by grain they are building well, 
Each one alone in its little cell. 
Moment by moment and day by day. 
Never stopping to rest or to play. 
Rocks upon rocks they are rearing high, 
Till the top looks out on the sunny sky; 
The gentle wind and the balmy air, 
Little by little, bring verdure there ; 
Till the summer sunbeams gayly smile 
On the buds and flowers of the coral islfli 

S. «• LitUo by litUe," said a thoughtful boy, 
•' Moment by moment, I '11 well employ, 
Learning a little every day. 
And not spending all my time in play. 
And still this rule in my mind shall dwell, 
•Whatever I do. I will do it well.' 
Little by little, I 'W learn to know 
The treasured ^'sdom of long ago ; 


And one of these days perhaps we '11 see 
That the world will be the better for me." 
And do not yon think that this simple plan 
^T'*')'' Iitm a wise and a useful man? 


1 I 'm with you once agun, my friends, 

No more my footsteps roam ; 
Where it began my journey ends. 

Amid the scenes of home. 
Vo other clime has skies so bine. 

Or streams so broad and clear. 
And where are hearts so warm and true 

As those that meet me here T 

2 Sill"'' l:i-'. vnd free, 

I pressed my luiiive siraiui, 
T 've wandered many mile^ at sea. 

And many miles on land: 
I *Te seen fair r^ona of the earth 

With rude commotion torn. 
Which taught me how to prize the worth 

Of that where I was bom. 

3. In other countries when I heard 

The language of my own, 
IIow fondly each familiar word 

Awoke an answering tone! 
But when our woodland songs were sung 
foreign mart. 

that faltero'l on the tongue 
With rapture thrillol mv heart! 

4. My native land ! I turn 

With blexinrr :in,l w!' 

Where mn true, 

LonL" flag in triumph wave, 

Agrtin.'^t tne world combined, 
And friends a welcome — foes a grave, 

Within our borders find. o. p. morrh 

VB 36870